What happened when four Delta Force men entered a bar of Russian sailors in Norway

A routine layover found four of us in a prominent city in Norway waiting to catch a flight back to the United States the following day. We deemed it incumbent on ourselves to search out the nearest pub for a late night brew prior to turning in for the night. The evening plan seemed tame enough; there really wouldn’t be enough time to get into any appreciable trouble.

A quick ride in a taxi brought us to the driver’s preferred hangout for a chat and brew to pass the last couple evening hours. We invited the driver in for a beer on us, though he politely declined. Fair enough, and so in we went.

Our entrance into the pub was followed by the – presumed – pub owner locking the door behind us, an act that drew a modicum of suspicion by the four of us Delta brothers. Perhaps that was just the house technique for gradually emptying out the shop at closing time – unlocking the door for guests one by one as they leave.

At the center of the premises was a wooden platform with a huge rock on it and a plaque with some Norwegian writing scribbled on it attached to the display.

“Do you think you could lift that rock, Ricardo?” one of the brothers mused

Ricardo, who was a big and hard-fighting man replied: “I suppose… if I had to.”

And there we four bellied up to the bar and ordered a glass of the local house beer, sipped it, and chatted. It was all harmless enough. We avoided eye contact with any of the local patrons. There were only foreign languages being spoken in the pub, with us keeping our English down to a whisper.

Nonetheless, it was not long before a large seafaring man with the look of a merchant marine came over and took the stool at the bar next to Ricardo. He then started in on what could only be deemed as a no-good attempt at friendly conversation:

“So, some Americans here I see.”

“That’s right, Americans… how do you do?” Ricardo replied.

“I am Russian man. And whenever Russian man and American man meets, do you know what they do?”

“And what might that be?”

“They fight!”

Ricardo, without rearing back his jab arm that was holding a beer, let the beer slip out and fall to the ground, while simultaneously launching his straight right punch into the Russian’s jaw. The man reeled back and fell over clumsily, meanwhile what seemed like the balance of the pub surged to gang up on us docile Americans.

Each of the four of us found ourselves standing off with a Russian merchant marine in a situation that was dire and escalating. Punches were exchanged, kicks, and tables overturned. Mark was at the entrance shaking the door knob madly crying out:

“It’s locked… the phuq’n door is locked!”

Ricardo approached the huge rock with the plaque on it.

“You can’t lift that rock, Ricardo!” Mark lamented dolefully.

Yet up came the rock from the base on which it sat. Ricardo cradled the boulder, his legs shaking as he took small steps toward the door. His pace quickened as he and the rock both crashed through the front door with a thunderous din – we were free!

We grabbed the nearest taxi and had it drop us to a different hotel than the one were actually staying in. There, we entered through the front door, passed all the way through the main lobby, and exited the hotel from its rear door. From there we grabbed another taxi and had it take us to the hotel we were truly staying at. We did all this to make sure that nobody had tried to follow us.

To this day I only ever really think of Norway as a country where one night I enjoyed almost half a glass of beer.

By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends

Feature Image: The “Old Dubliner” Irish pub in Hamburg. (Photo by Hinnerk Rümenapf)

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