Area 51, East

It's a little known fact that the U.S Army has it's own Area 51. F.T Bragg NC is the home of Special Operations Command. Soldiers with reputations that would even make great Achilles think twice are forged in under the pines, born from the red clay and sand, tempered by the humidity. Like The Immortals of Greek legend they inhabit their own Mount Olympos, Smoke Bomb Hill. But even they are not the pinnacle. Above and beyond them are The Titans of the Warriors Pantheon. The D-Boys. Delta Force. They live amongst the mortals, hidden in plain sight, their compound locked away behind fences and access gates, guarded day and night by unmarked SUVs that ride low on their suspension. 

Away from this mysterious domain is the world of the mortals. Those poor creatures that exist, scratching away, to make a mark in this life. They toil, they triumph, they fail. Those poor fools are the 18th Airborne Corps. But it doesn't stop there. Bragg has a Hades as well. It's called Division Area. Division Area is where the 82nd Airborne Division resides. In the 90s it was the ghetto of Bragg. Fifty plus year old barracks where the hot water frequently failed. The unfortunate Leg that found himself unaccompanied along Ardennes soon learned to keep his eyes straight forward and ignore the cat calls of the young toughs who's territory this was. Like the youth of bad neighborhoods the lower enlisted of the 82nd had a reputation and even more to prove. 

Just across Gruber Rd and West of Division headquarters on The Hill is the 82nd's backyard, Area J. Acres of scrub, Carolina pines, red clay and sand that have been used as training grounds for generations. Area J is a kind of no man's land, units don't have to reserve it like a range, they can just go there, anytime, and conduct what training needs to be done, be that squad, platoon, or company level. 

One overcast day late 1995 my platoon was police calling a grid square as our daily mission on Support Cycle. The clear plastic trash bags we carried were bulging with MRE trash, papers, and plastic. When they were full we would carry them to nearby Firebrake 6 for a cargo HMMWV would pick them up. 

"Ah what the fuck is this?!" Hibbin was down in an old machine gun fighting position, his voice muffled as he reached into an uncollapsed section of the overhead cover. He emerged with a half of a Katana sword. The blade had been snapped off about halfway up. We passed it around as Hibben rooted around for more. One by one his searching brought out a Nazi flag, a faded and water logged gay porn magazine, and a nearly empty tube of 'Hot & Spicy' butt lube. The platoon stood in a half circle, the items layed out in a neat row before us. Finally, in his Pennsylvania accent, Chris Housenick broke the silence. "Area J. The Area 51 of FT Bragg." 

Area J: Here Be Weirdness