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THE NEXT MORNING Ericksen spotted the six-foot-four, 225-pound Pulaski leaving the mess hall. He walked up to him. "You're not fit to wear that uniform." At six-foot-one and 185 pounds, he was just a pound over his collegiate wrestling weight. "We'll find out, won't we?" said Pulaski. His face flushed red with anger. Pulaski enjoyed beating the shit out of warriors who either challenged him or verbally disagreed with him. He hadn't lost a fight in over two years. Both men were experts in close-quarters combat. Soldiers leaving the mess hall gathered to watch. Pulaski threw the first punch to his head and missed, and in less than a tenth of a second, Ericksen delivered a swift, powerful kick, buckling Pulaski's knee. Pulaski momentarily lost his balance when Ericksen's right-hand punch landed flush on his temple, knocking him to the ground. The former All-American college wrestler took Pulaski down with a burst of speed and pummeled him with vicious shots to his head and face, smashing his nose, cutting his right eye, and splitting his lip open. Ericksen continued pounding his bloody face and then finally stopped. He stood up and looked down at Pulaski. "Go to hell, you lying bastard!" Pulaski groaned in pain as Ericksen turned and walked toward the mess hall. (A note: I mentioned in my book this was a tier-one operators from the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), whose platoon consisted of Delta, Navy SEAL Team-Six, USAF Controller, and a CIA operator from the Special Activities Division (CIA's paramilitary clandestine section).