Chad writes "Back in 1992, I was stationed at Ft. Lewis in the 3rd Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group (Airborne). We were running a force-on-force training operation. I don’t recall the exact location—maybe an hour’s drive from Lewis.

Our task was to defend a simulated Surface-to-Air Missile (SAM) site consisting of a trailer and container meant to resemble a rocket launcher.

We had two Special Forces Operational Detachment Alphas (ODAs) involved, roughly 20 guys total, plus a few support personnel. The site was backed up against the “no play zone,” so any attacking team could only approach from the west. It was fortified: two M-60 machine gun nests, a perimeter of seasoned operators, M-16s for each of us, a couple of HF radios—basic gear for a simulated “enemy” approach. No high-speed tech, no grenade simulators that I can recall.

The terrain was layered: a track in front of the site, then woods, then a clean trail parallel to a ridge 150 meters to the west. Beyond that, a large field of tall grass. Ferns covered the ridge slope—dense and knee-to-hip high.

Our mission was to intercept and resist any attempt to assault the SAM site, likely between dusk and sunrise. We ran rotating two-man patrols along the trail, each covering a three-hour shift.

The night of the encounter, I was paired with a Sergeant First Class—an 18D medic whom I’ll call “Guy.” He’d been in group for years. I was 22 at the time, on of the youngest on site.

Moonlight was strong—brilliant enough to allow stealth movement. We paced slowly, stopping every few meters to kneel and scan. After an hour, we paused under a shadowed area. Guy lit a cigarette with quiet precision—no glow exposed. I asked how he did that. He smirked and said, “Sniper check.”

Then it happened.

A deafening scream rang out from the ridge. At first, I thought it was an animal. But then came a bizarre shift: halfway through, it took on a human tone. Eight to ten seconds of sustained vocalization that morphed into a frantic, incoherent babble… and finally, a coyote-like cackle or laughing sound. The volume never dropped.

We scanned the ridge. I spotted a silhouette—a massive figure, turning swaying side to side near a tree at the top of the ridge. It looked human. I thought, “Who in group is that size?” We went guns up. The figure turned north and walked away.

We pursued him, assuming a diversion tactic to draw us away from the site. But despite jogging, we couldn’t close the gap. He moved quickly—strangely so. This went on for nearly a kilometer and a half.

The forest thickened. The ridge narrowed – bottle necked. And then the figure veered east—straight toward us—charging downhill like a bipedal rhino through underbrush. Not sticks snapping… limbs breaking.

I think at this moment, I realized It wasn’t human and started to categorize it.

We veered northwest off the trail to intercept. It turned north, the woods were dark – perfect place for a kill zone, an ambush, I could still track its movement. Then… silence. It stopped moving.

Total quiet. We crept forward—as noted this was textbook ambush territory. But nothing came. The smell did.

It hit in layers. First: wet dog tangled with decay. Then: putrid infection, feces, rot. It overwhelmed me. As the stench peaked, dread set in. Danger. Immediate and primal.

I glanced at Guy. He nodded: time to back out.

We backed out—me facing rear, unwilling to turn my back. I feared a charge. Surprisingly, Guy was only 15 feet behind. I suspect he walked backward too.

Eventually we hit the trail again, dazed. We stood in silence. Not tactical—just stunned. I have no concept of how long we stood there. I remember being totally surprised by how far we went, and how far off the trail we went. Almost like an unexplainable time warp.

We never spoke of it again. The only time I had heard what Guy had experienced was later that morning as he debriefed the CO and some of the others.

There is much more to this encounter that I would like to discuss with you.”