Commoner the Vagabond

by Robin Ray

  Chapter 5

 

  A few weeks after Dan left, and James had just celebrated his 17th birthday, a prolonged rainstorm in the Pacific Northwest weakened the roof of Bright Village. A couple of rooms in James’s wing, including his, sustained water damage to the ceiling and walls. All the boys were transferred over to the other wing. James, by chance, received one of the smaller one-bedroom units typically set aside for stranded workers or other staff-related emergencies. Settling into his new digs, he enjoyed the freedom to study as long as he wished without interruption from a roommate. Spending the rest of 11th grade and the subsequent summer there, he decorated it with scientific posters and various other charts acquired from a bookstore. As he had also developed a keen interest in airplane and spaceship models, he felt free to assemble, decorate and display small scale models of the Apollo spacecraft as well as his rendition of his fantastic cloud city.

  He paid for the strips of balsa, paint and other materials from his after-school part time job at a pizza store. Acquiring a license because of a driver’s education class in school, he hoped someday to buy a car. For the moment, he had to make do with the pizza store’s compact delivery car to satisfy his yen for locomotion. With his thirst for knowledge as unabated as his hunger for discovery, delivering pizza proved to be fruitful as it allowed him to see homes and other sites he normally wouldn’t be exposed to. And, although he realized he could never make his cloud city a reality, it was an idea that clung to him foolishly, bending his will to its fantastic notion.

  By the summer, he started thinking about his future. He only had one more year of high school to go and thought he should start working on his plans. He went to the library often and read up about a lot of colleges and universities, in state and out of state, public and private. Always keeping an eye to their costs, he scanned page after page of whatever he found. Deeming private schools too expensive, he focused instead on state colleges, especially those within Washington. Because he wanted to travel, and spurred on by several bad local memories, he started reading about schools such as Washington State University and Gonzaga on the eastern front and Central Washington, Walla Walla, Heritage Universities and Whitman College in the middle of the state. Never forgetting his dreams of flight, he kept his eyes open for whichever offered the opportunity of aviation or aeronautics.

  The beginning of 12th grade didn’t go as planned. James, ensconced in his solitude, barely spoke to anyone at Bright Village or Ingraham. He did see Dan a few times in school, but because he was always busy, had little time to speak to him. Drawing more and more into the confines of his own space, his schoolwork suffered. Where he was used to getting A and B grades he was making do with C and the occasional D. His school guidance counselor spoke to him on several occasions. James, however, stated everything was okay and his lackluster performance was just a temporary setback. He explained that high school presented few challenges for him and, as he was eager to further his education, lost a little focus on his current foundation. The counselor understood but she did recommend he see the school psychologist if he was feeling depressed. He stated he’d look into it.

  James kept to his expected chores at Bright. He even assisted in the cleanup of his old wing, painting the walls and cleaning mold off the ceiling. The manager asked him if he’d ever considered becoming a counselor there but James politely refused, telling him his dreams of exploring the world especially through flight. The manager then suggested that, since exploration was such an expensive venture, maybe he should consider joining the air force as they paid for everything. James casually accepted his idea but didn’t give it more than a cursory thought. As the school year dragged on, and his grades barely improved, he did come to give the air force idea further cerebration.

  Again, when he had the time, he dived into the books at the library regarding the air force. Their promises of adventure seemed more and more enticing with their military and diplomatic capability rousing his interest. The more he read about its history, the more fascinated he became. Peace-loving by nature, he was concerned that they did participate in destroyer missions, but as they also engaged in search & rescue, cargo transport and reconnaissance missions, this made their tasks more palatable.

  By the time spring arrived, he had his mind made up. He was going to join the air force when he turned 18 the following year. Securing an “Aim High” poster from their recruitment office in Tukwila just 10 miles south of Seattle, he taped it to his wall and stared at it every day. Some of his housemates thought he was making a bad decision and tried talking him out of enlisting. James told them they were dreaming and behaving like frightened children. Still, he understood their concerns, took them to heart, and promised to consider his decision deeply.

  In preparation for the military, he adopted an exercise regimen that he hoped would thwart the recruiters from dismissing him because of his low stamina. With his free time, he started jogging around the high school track. For variety, he also ran around his neighborhood. For weeks, he considered purchasing a newly manufactured cassette Walkman, but because they were cost prohibitive and bulky, he passed on it.

  In addition to jogging, he started doing pushups and sit-ups in his room. A few of his housemates teased him, calling him Jungle Jim for his adventurous spirit. In time, he started performing handstands against a wall and holding those positions for long periods of time. As the months progressed, it became apparent even to the Bright staff that he was serious about the military. His body even showed a lot of progress because of his constant exercises. Eventually, no one who knew him tried to talk him out of enlisting as it seemed as inevitable as a snow storm in winter.

  Secretly, James did wish he didn’t have to enlist. The pros and cons of service shuffled back and forth in his head like a wayward train. Although he wasn’t forced, he did come to see it as his ticket out of the boys’ home and the area in general. He also gave the in-state universities and their costs more scrutiny even though, by the end of the school year, his choice was chiseled in stone.

  After graduating from high school, he continued working at the pizza store. Now free from school, he accepted more hours from the establishment. One of the servers, a girl named Georgine, took a special interest in him. She surprised him one day by bringing him a small bag of creamy white chocolate from a fancy chocolatier at the mall. He thanked her and thought nothing of it. When the other pizza makers started hinting about a possible romance, he became angry and casually brushed their suggestion aside.

  By the wintertime, Georgine and James did become a half-serious couple. They went to the movies together, saw bands at the Seattle Center Coliseum such as Duran Duran and The Cars with Wang Chung, and ice skated in a rink in Shoreline. Although they were close, they both had a different idea of where their relationship should be. Georgine was thinking ahead. She wanted it all – a husband, children, a house in the suburbs, etc. James could barely think outside of his own interests. He was as fascinated with the mechanics of flight as when he was younger. Slowly, she tried to break him away from his books or any other focus which she considered fantastic, but the more she tried, the less she achieved. He simply refused to roll over and accept the confines of normal adulthood. As a consequence, their relationship suffered. By the spring, they had broken up.

  On his birthday of April 1, he was given a lift to the Military Entrance Processing Station, or MEPS, on Marginal Way in Seattle by an air force recruiting officer. For two days, he was tested and questioned along with several other hopefuls. After taking the Armed Forces Vocational Aptitude Battery, or ASVAB, he was given the requisite eye test and physical exam. Both went without a hitch but his stamina during the pushups portion was sorely questioned.

  Much to his glee, he passed.

  Prior to entering MEPS, James had taken the liberty of stopping his own medications. Because he was a trusted upperclassman at Bright Village, he had the option of administering his own pills. Fearing a blood test or psychological exam,
he chose to be drug free months before. Learning that MEPS would not subpoena his medical records, he simply stated on the ASVAB that he was not under any psychiatrist’s care and had no history of mental problems. Later, after choosing his future specialty of being an airplane pilot, he was ordered to swear in with the other recruits. By then, his heart was like a wrapped ball of hurricane ions thumping in his chest. There was no looking back. He knew he’d reached the point of no return.

  Since there was a new boot camp class every week, instead of delaying his entrance into basic training, he requested to go right away. The officers at MEPS agreed with his decision and saw no reason for him to drag his feet. With his luck, James thought, the faster the better as the air force could potentially discover what his life at Bright Village was really like and deny him the privilege of enlisting.

  Arriving at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas the next day, he came face to face with the visions that had been haunting his mind. He saw sea upon sea of recruits at various stages of enlistment being put through the rigors of military training. There was camouflage as far as the eyes could see. Drill sergeants were yelling so loudly that the veins in their necks looked like they were ready to burst. Military vehicles, mostly Jeeps, were scattered throughout the base or being driven by servicemen everywhere. He stared at a group of enlisted men who stormed past him and swallowed the lump in his throat. This was no fantastic vision, this was real. Blood, sweat and tears, he soon learned, would become part of his everyday vocabulary, and the faster he got used to it, the better.

  During the six and a half weeks of boot camp, James saw many recruits quit. Broken to the point of disrepair, he watched as crying and afflicted legions of young men fled San Antonio, grabbing whatever was left of their will to survive. James himself had a few run ins with his training instructor (TI), but the punishment of additional exercises and humiliating tactics didn’t scare him away. To some extent, it strengthened his resolve as the thoughts of failing spurred him on. There were many nights when he’d question his decision, even bringing the subject up once with a counselor, a clinical psychologist with great listening skills. She questioned if he was really ready for service to which he answered yes. Fearing she would have him kicked out, he kept all anxieties and worries to himself.

  He made some friends while in boot camp. Poon, a bespectacled pimply-faced redhead from Nashville, and Rajah, a young man of Punjabi descent from Chicago, slept on the bunk bed next to his. At night, after lights out, they often spoke about issues such as growing up in a neighborhood which didn’t favor them to the types of girls they preferred to what kind of car they’d buy for their 21st birthday.

  “Since I was born empty handed,” Rajah complained from the lower bunk, “any set of wheels will do. Where I was born, people had no transportation. Hell, there wasn’t even any running water.”

  “Where are you from?” James asked.

  “I’m from a tiny village in the Punjabi Amritsar district of western India,” he answered. “Most people made a living working on farms.”

  “What did you grow?” Poon asked, trying to keep his Southern twang just above a whisper.

  “It was an emu farm,” Rajah answered.

  “Cool,” Poon nodded. “When did you come to the U.S.?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “Then you went through all that immigration shit?”

  “To become a citizen?” Rajah asked. “Nah. My mother had twins back in Chicago and I got naturalized through her. I’m not sure how it works but it’s something along those lines.” “Shh!” James’s top bunkmate, Funnyman, woke up and warned them. “It’s late already.” “Sorry,” Rajah apologized for the group.

  “No problem,” Funnyman explained. “It’s just today I thought I was gonna explode.” James looked up at him.

  “Think you’re gonna make it?”

  “I’d better,” he answered. “My family’s future is riding on it.”

  “I’m glad it’s just me,” James admitted. “Less stress.”

  “You’re lucky,” Poon chimed in. “My family’s betting against me.”

  “Why?” Rajah asked.

  “I’m from Gallatin near Nashville so a lot of my kin are in the music business. My cousin works at the landmark Bluebird Café, my uncle is an assistant engineer at RCA Studio B in Music Row, and my big sister just released her first album. She sings at The Opry and tours with some of the big names like Reba McIntyre and George Strait. They thought I was gonna join ‘em, but I had this yearning to fly, you know what I mean?”

  “You can’t fight fate,” James suggested.

  “But you can fight the enemy,” Poon bragged.

  “If y’all don’t keep it down,” Funnyman warned again, “the sergeant’s gonna bust in here and make everybody do pushups, so shut up!”

  Complying, James, Poon and Rajah remained quiet for the rest of the night. None went to sleep right away. They simply laid on their backs with their hands behind their heads and thought about the days to come.

  James’s training instructor, Staff Sergeant Louis Hägstrom, had a mouth like a billowing whale. If he wanted paint stripped from a wall, his simply yelling at it would probably do the trick. Naturally, none of the trainees cared for his mannerisms, but they knew it was part of the process. As it was his job to weed out the weak and unprepared, those who survived learned to tune him out when he started ranting.

  He got into a screaming match with James in the barracks one evening. The other recruits were sure the 18-year-old would be kicked out; luckily, Hägstrom admired his spunk and kept him around. The trainees had already passed the weeks of learning basic drills, maintaining their M-16’s, providing basic CPR and anti-terrorist training. Now, with only two weeks to go, it appeared they were home free.

  As he laid on his mattress thinking about the TI, James heard someone call to him from atop the bunk to his left.

  “James,” the young soldier whispered, “don’t let Hägstrom get to you, man. His bark is worse than his bite.”

  James looked over to see who was talking. It was a young man around his age with fat cheeks, a pointed chin and glasses.

  “I’d never seen you before,” James whispered back. “What’s your name? When did you get here?”

  “My name’s Baker,” he answered. “I just arrived today.”

  “How come you’re in this group? We’ve been here for weeks.”

  “I was in another company but they transferred me out.”

  “What’d you do? Fight your TI?”

  “Nah,” Baker answered. “Nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know why.”

  “Well, welcome to Company C. All grits, no cornmeal here.”

  “So, I’ve heard.”

  Just then Rajah called to James from the bunk to the right.

  “Keep it down,” Rajah whispered. “Who are you talking to anyway?”

  “The new guy,” he answered.

  Rajah, rubbing his eyes, was too tired to look and see who James was talking to.

  “Just can it,” Rajah warned him. “You already almost got nailed by Hägstrom tonight.

  You wanna scrub latrines for the next two weeks?”

  “I’ll be quiet,” James moaned.

  Settling back into his bunk, he folded his arms across his chest.

  “Good night,” Baker whispered.

  Yeah,” James stated. “You, too.”

  Early the next morning, right after reveille was called, James and his company woke up to prepare for the day’s battery of exercises. Hägstrom stomped into the barracks.

  “Attention!” he yelled.

  Immediately, all the recruits stood at attention next to their bunks. Hägstrom surveyed his charges with his arms folded behind his back then started pacing slowly in front of them.

  “I can take missiles falling out of the sky,” he began. “I can even stand a bayonet pointed at my grapes. What I can’t take is soldiers interrupting my God-g
iven sleep to discuss how clingy their panties are! Which of you maggots kept yamming after lights out last night?”

  Hägstrom kept silent waiting for a recruit to make an admission. He stared down the orderly rows hoping someone would speak up. After a few moments, it became obvious to him that no one would utter a blessed word.

  “Very well,” he stated calmly. “As you gentlemen know, today you will be introduced to more advanced combat techniques. But there will be a slight twist. Morning chow will be delayed because all of you will be doubled up on exercises this morning!”

  “Sir, it was James, sir!” Rajah suddenly blurted out. “He talks all night!” Hägstrom marched over to Rajah and stared at his face.

  “Are you ratting out one of these blue-heads because of your concern, or are you just too weak to commit to double your exercises?”

  “Sir, no sir!” Rajah shouted.

  “Sir, no sir, what, your imperial majesty?” Hägstrom asked.

  “Sir!”

  “You know what’s worse than your enemy drawing a bead on you from 100 yards in a forest,” Hägstrom told him, “is having your own squad mate not getting your back when the pressure’s on. Beat your face!” Rajah looked puzzled.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  “Get down and give me twenty!” Hägstrom yelled.

  Rajah immediately went to the floor and commenced pumping out 20 pushups. Hägstrom walked over to James and looked at his face.

  “Are the rumors true?” he asked.

  “Sir, yes sir!” James shouted, his voice at the edge of disappearing.

  “I see. Pray tell, young soldier,” Sergeant Shakespeare In Love waxed poetically, “who dost keepest thou up with useless banter and wit-filled chattering, hmm?”

  “Sir, the new recruit, sir!”

  Hägstrom leaned into James. “What new recruit?”

  “Sir! I’m talking about Baker, sir!”

  “Baker?” the resolute sergeant asked. “Where is he?”

  “Sir, one bunk over to my right and above, sir!”

  Hägstrom looked at the recruit standing next to the neighboring bunk and only saw Funnyman standing there. He turned back to James.

  “Boy, I think you missed your calling. You’ve got more jokes than Lewis Black. Is that it, soldier? You want to trade in your boots for a stint in Las Vegas?”

  “Sir, no sir!”

  “Well, your little chat buddy must’ve scooted during the night. Can’t say I blame him with a shoddy-ass company like this. I would’ve bounced during the night myself.”

  Rajah, finishing his punishment, rejoined the group.

  “You ladies get ready for drills,” Hägstrom informed them. “Just leave all your tricks behind in your lockers.”

  After he left, Rajah turned to James.

  “See what you made me do?” he yelled angrily between gritted teeth.

  “Don’t blame me!” James asserted.

  “You get us in any more trouble,” the Punjabi warned him, “and you’ll feel it one night.”

  “You threatening me, Raj?” James asked.

  “No,” he insisted. “That’s a promise.”

  Tension, already high with the troop, escalated after that event. Committed to camaraderie, all the recruits had to show they were one unit. Since they had to behave like one out on the field, none dared show their growing disdain for James. The extra drills they were forced to endure helped create a rift between James and his crew. Everyone still talked to him, but to those familiar with them, their relationship was obviously strained.

  Warrior Week arrived, the week when they would be put through the ultimate wringer that would test their body and soul. Facing intensive training in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape procedures, or SERE, a few were expected to be kicked out. This was the part where one’s mettle was sorely tested and nerves of steel were as necessary as scales on an armadillo. Most of the airmen sailed through the wilderness survival and first aid portion but the resistance and capture techniques presented new problems. Relying on realistic situations such as sleep deprivation, isolation and swamp submerging, the psychological challenges proved to be too strenuous for some and they ended up quitting. James’s versatility and relative ease of completing tasks such as underhand rope crawling made him popular and helped improve his relationship with his company. As survival meant brotherhood, separation just wouldn’t do. He was even surprised to see Baker during a few technical applications, but kept his distance lest his squad mates start a new row with him.

  After Warrior Week was over, all the airmen, or what remained of them, took their obligatory final written test and had briefings by their superiors. James sat in the briefing hall not thinking about his commanders, or all those weeks of intense training, but the flight back to Seattle from Washington D.C. with Leslie. With his Martyrs Mirror sitting on his lap, he had his right palm pressed against the window as he stared out across the open sky. Through wisps of clouds he could make out the outlines of the cities and towns miles below. Un-forested trees, manicured farms and smoking factories blurred the landscape. From high above the ground, everything seemed surreal, like a dream mired in serenity. He then snapped back into the present all the airmen pushed their chairs back, stood at attention and saluted their commanding officer. Quickly following suit, he also stood and saluted hoping no one noticed his slight delay.

  Walking over to the mess hall with Poon and Rajah minutes later, they stooped and looked at a new group of recruits stepping off a bus just beyond a fence about 100 feet away.

  “Remember your first day?” Rajah asked them. “Just look at those greenhorns.”

  “Boy,” Poon stated, “if they only knew the world of hurt they were asking for.”

  “I know,” James agreed. “They don’t tell you about these things in the catalog.” All three airmen giggled. James turned to Poon.

  “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “Oh, yes,” he insisted. “I’m as proud as a madam with a cathouse of virgins. Just wait till they get a load of me back home. I ain’t no loser no more.” James turned to Rajah.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “What can I say? This is a dream come true. I thought I was gonna die during SERE. Man, they don’t call it Warrior Week for nothing.”

  “Did you already tell me where you’re headed after this?” Poon asked James.

  “Shake those cobwebs loose, boy,” James jokingly admonished him. “Vandenberg. Geez, you forget quick.”

  “Vandenberg,” Rajah stated. “Real high tech. Since me and Poon are staying right here in sunny ol’ Texas, don’t forget to write.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” James promised. “I’ll put up a sky message just for you two. Look for the one that says “Kiss This!”

  Graduation Friday arrived with its bittersweet feeling. As the trainees, now called airmen, proudly ran their morning route around the base, family members and other spectators crowded roadside to catch a good view of their loved ones. Later, dressed head to foot in their shiny new blue uniforms, the airmen attended their Coin Ceremony in the grounds area as spectators watched from the bleachers. No one came to see James but he did his best to disguise his lackluster emotions. His close buddies already guessed how he must have felt especially after witnessing the tearing eyes of the assembled families. After the ceremony, he spoke briefly with. Rajah’s family and met momentarily with Poon’s people. With everyone occupied, he used the distraction to sneak away from the commotion. Twisting his graduation coin through his fingers, he walked casually towards an office building on campus. A few minutes later he ran into Baker who, like him, was wearing dress blues.

  “Hey, Baker,” he greeted him. “How come you’re not with your people?”

  “I think they got lost. Since we have passes for today and tomorrow I’ll just meet them in town.”

  Baker looked at the coin James was playing with.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” Baker asks.

  “Yeah,�
� James agreed. “Where are you headed after this?”

  “Vandenberg.”

  “So am I!” James shouted excitedly. “What’re you studying?”

  “I’m technical-minded by nature so I figure helicopter maintenance is right up my alley.”

  “Cool.”

  James stopped playing with the coin and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

  “Hey Baker,” he continued, “what happened to you that night?”

  “What night?”

  “In the barracks. You came and left without telling anyone.”

  “Actually, my company commander was notified. They just like to keep everything hush hush.”

  “Oh. It created a rift with me and my troop for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, it’s not important. I don’t really like bringing up the past especially if it sucks.” James checked his watch.

  “It’s still kinda early. I wanna make good use of my town pass.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I’m all I’ve got,” James admitted. “Everybody else seems wrapped up.”

  “Well, good luck,” Baker stated as they shook hands.

  “I’ll see you around,” James stated.

  “Yeah. Vandy’s a big place.”

  Baker saluted then turned and walked away. Nearly an hour later, James ran into two graduates who were headed out to San Antonio for the evening. Tagging along, the three ate at one of the many Mexican restaurants there as well as saw a movie. The next day, a goodly number of airmen, including James, headed back into town. They visited the Alamo, the San Antonio Museum of Art and Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum. As the day went on, they broke off into splinter groups. Some ventured further into towns north, south east or west of San Antonio. James and a coterie of friends took in a country-western show at a grill on Broadway St. Just watching the band’s pianist brought back those deep feelings of tickling the ivories himself. He even thought about asking the band if he could sit in for a song or two. Eventually, he let the idea pass as night fell.

  Because the drinking age was 19 years old, James and a few others thought it best to let their older comrades handle the beer-buying duties. Drifting into the seedier part of town, they found a rock and roll dive that was willing to serve them, reasoning it was their patriotic duty as Americans. By 11PM, the airmen were three sheets to the wind. A few were barely able to stand and required assistance. As it was a music tavern, microphones were already set up on stage. The servicemen, abandoning all inhibitions, rose to the challenge of singing backup to a rowdy girl group called The ManEaters. As the patrons hooted and hollered, James and his buddies sang and gyrated wildly with the ManEaters, screaming out lyrics at the top of their lungs. Beer and water flew everywhere. The band and the stage started getting soaked with booze. A few times the owner tried to settle things down but the raucous environment never abated until the police showed up.

  All the servicemen, too drunk to walk straight, had to be bussed back to their campus where they were reamed out royally by their superiors and privately praised by their inferiors. By Sunday afternoon, their exploits in the bar had become stuff of legend around the base. James, however, because of his inherently frail structure, remained in bed recovering. By the evening, he started looking a little pale around the gills and his TI thought it was best if he was hospitalized.

  He spent the night and nearly all of Monday recuperating at Wilford Hall Medical Center right on base. Several attempts of trying to stand proved fruitless as he lacked the strength. The staff was sympathetic enough to not laugh at his condition, but if they did, he felt it would’ve been deserved. Towards the evening, the color had finally returned to his cheeks and the IV electrolytes in his veins brought his strength back to the fore. Later on, he learned to his chagrin that his fellow airmen had already been shipped out to their technical schools. His commander visited him in the hospital and chastised him for his errant drinking. James swore it was a rare event and completely out of sync with his character. Luckily, the commander relented, made an exception and allowed him to travel independently with one of his superiors.