by JD Davis
One evening in early May, much to the delight of Lizzie, Drummer showed up, unpacked his bags, and said he was going to be a farmer. At the time they were living close to Lizzie’s mom and dad in Texas, but within weeks Drummer bought a diesel truck and a big fifth wheel RV and towed it to Oregon. During all the lonely hours and downtime as a road warrior, Drummer had meticulously planned his second life, starting with a vineyard.
A year earlier when the band was playing at a music festival in Santa Cruz, California, Drummer rented a car and drove to Napa where he met Jose Palmero. Jose was a wine-making genius. While his English was only tolerable, he was a vintner, a chemist, a farmer, welder, mechanic, and even a practicing alchemist. Drummer and Jose had a long discussion involving several bottles of wine, a dream, a vision, and money. The money sealed the deal, and Jose agreed to move his wife to Oregon just as soon as Drummer found them a house.
To everyone’s surprise, Sonata added, “We come when the check you give … it is good … no problemo.”
“We still owned a home in Texas, but our hearts and future were here. I ran barefoot through these fields while Mom, Dad, Jose, and Sonata planted grapes. Jose, or Joe as everyone started calling him, was a Renaissance man—smart, animated, and kind to me, so I became his shadow. I held vines while he tied them, handed him wrenches when he worked on our tractor, and even learned to sing in Spanish. In the evenings, Jose would play his guitar and Sonata would sing as we all huddled around a campfire. Soon after we built the first barn we started on our house, added some laborers, and the dream began to take shape. It was a delightful time, but whenever anyone yelled for Joe, we both came running. I was probably ten years old when we walked into a local hardware store full of people. As we entered, the merchant said, ‘Here they come, Joe and little Gringo Joe,’ and the rest is history.”
Mel walked and drank in the spellbinding story as easily as she had the delightful wine. There was something honest and enchanting about his voice. Never in her wildest imagination had she expected the barista to be so charming, but charming did not begin to explain the layers of Joe Chandler.
“Enough about me,” Joe said, embarrassed that he had droned on. “What about you? What’s next for California’s newest law grad?”
Mel had barely mentioned it at dinner, as she had barely mentioned much at all about herself. She exhaled slowly and averted the question with another question of her own—a trait, which Joe noticed, she practiced with ease.
“So, coffee and wine, how exactly did that happen?”
Joe was capable of dodging questions himself. “Well, a story for another time I suppose. Speaking of which, is there any chance you’d accompany me to a fundraiser this Saturday evening? It’s hosted by our mayor and his wife, Jillian. It’s a nice dinner and you’d save me the embarrassment of explaining myself to the ladies in attendance who all know a nice girl I should meet.”
Mel didn’t know why she hesitated, but it was long enough to be awkward. Joe quickly let her off the hook.
“Hey, no worries if you have other plans; just stop by for a coffee and let me know. Speaking of which, I open early tomorrow, so if you don’t mind, I should probably call it a night.”
He and Mel made the slow walk back to his car with hardly a word.
“I liked the music,” she said. “Could we hear some more on the way back?”
“Of course,” he said, wondering if somewhere in the otherwise pleasant evening he had offended her. Not a word had been spoken in the car—just the raspy voice of Mac Powell—but when Joe stopped, Mel put her hand on his and said she’d get the door, then leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Perfect. It was a perfect evening. Thank you, and tell your parents I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.” Then she disappeared inside.
CHAPTER 3
IN SEARCH OF THE EXTRAORDINARY
When Joe transferred from Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo to Biola University in La Mirada, California, he and Drummer argued so furiously Lizzie thought it would come to blows. The vineyard, now featured in magazines and shipping its award-winning Tempranillo and Pinot Noir all over the world, needed constant attention. Drummer had always assumed Joe would fill the void. After all, besides himself and perhaps Jose Palmero, his son knew more about the operation of Segundo Vida Vineyards than anyone did. Segundo vida in Spanish simply means second life, and for Joe that was really the rub. Since he was eight years old the vineyard had been his only life, and now he planned to see what options the rest of the world offered. The vineyard was hard work, and Joe had taken to it like a hungry dog to a bone. He had an inquisitive mind and was always asking questions—or worse, questioning his father’s decisions. He understood the science perfectly but it was the farming, the planting, and harvesting which Joe loved. Picking the grapes with his family and neighbors was a spiritual experience. At the end of most days, Joe would slip away to a quiet place, make sure no one was watching, and give thanks to the God of the harvest. In Joe’s mind, the connection between a vineyard and the spiritual was as natural as a storm and a rainbow.
Joe’s infatuation with the God of the Bible had begun in Texas. His grandmother, known as Mémé, was a fiery French Cajun and a devout Catholic. However, his grandpa—a soft-spoken, six-foot, five-inch Texan whom everyone called Hoss—was a Protestant and a masterful expositor of the Bible. His given name was Harmon Littlefield, and while he owned a successful tractor dealership in South Texas, he much preferred to tell folks about the love of Jesus. On any given Sunday, you could find Hoss in a Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Holiness church teaching the Bible. Hoss never put too much stock in the name over the door, so in an area where poor churches couldn’t afford a full-time preacher, you’d find Hoss. He had married, buried, counseled, and, from time to time, fed hundreds of poor Texans. Mémé would faithfully attend Saturday evening mass, then follow Hoss from church to church, often yelling “Amen!” from a front-row pew. Much to Hoss and Mémé’s disappointment, their daughter, Elizabeth, had rebelled and married a musician; but all was forgiven when Joe was born. They had practically raised their grandson while Drummer was on the road and had instilled into him a reverent respect of things holy. Lizzie knew the Bible backwards and forwards but she marveled at her son who, from an early age, had the quiet, personal relationship with God that she’d traded for a handsome rock star.
When Joe graduated from high school, Drummer hadn’t asked his son about his plans or his dreams, but instead made implications and assumptions. Joe loved his parents and didn’t want to disappoint them or the Palmeros, whom he loved like family. Regardless, there were things calling and itches, life at the vineyard were not scratching.
Joe had been an agricultural engineering major at Cal Poly, but after transferring to Biola, a wise counselor suggested political science or international studies—he fell in love with both. During his junior year, he was selected to do a semester of Middle Eastern studies in Amman, Jordan.
Joe always went home for Christmas and spent a couple of summers helping with the vineyard, but he was still hearing distant voices, and his Dad could see it.
Joe crammed a great deal into four-and-a-half years and when he graduated, he did so with honors. Lizzie watched him walk and take his diploma, but his father had an important meeting and wasn’t able to make it. After a celebratory dinner with his mom and friends, Joe drove Lizzie back to the Orange County Airport. He said he needed to “kick over a few rocks” and asked her not to worry. He also assured her that he and his father loved each other, and time would be a great healer. After a few tears, she told him she was attending church again and would pray for him every day, then kissed him goodbye.
To his credit, Joe had done his homework. After long hours of research, he prayed and began his quest. Though he was looking for direction, his mission was not about companies, jobs, or career paths. Joe’s research was about men, not average men, not men who led unextraordinary lives but great men.
He drove to Utah to
meet Ben, a man who lived in a used 36-foot RV that sat under the overhang of a large barn somewhere close to nowhere. Ben was an inventor and owned over 300 registered patents. His last one was an inexpensive water pump that brought clean underground water to over 450,000 drought-stricken people in Africa. When his wife, Celeste, died of a tropical disease she contracted while helping others, Ben gave away tens of millions of dollars to dig more wells and buy mosquito nets for at-risk children on three continents. Joe liked Ben, and Ben hugged him when he left and told him he’d find his way.
In Birmingham, Alabama, Joe sat under a large pecan tree with Leroy Swain. Joe read about Mr. Swain three years earlier and wanted to meet him, so he did. LeRoy had been tied behind a pickup truck and dragged down a gravel road as two men in the back threw empty beer bottles at him. The incident had left him crippled for the rest of his life but not broken. The men were eventually arrested, and while the driver shot himself instead of going to prison, the two brothers served thirteen years of a twenty-year sentence. Donnie Ray and Elmer Clabber would have served their full terms if not for Leroy Swain. After two years of skin graft operations and learning to walk again, Leroy started visiting the two brothers in prison. First he told them he forgave them just to get their attention; then he told them about a remarkable carpenter from Galilee … every other Sunday afternoon … for eleven years. He repeatedly went to the parole board on their behalf until they were finally released into his custody. They had no family, no money, and no chance … but for Leroy. He and his wife took them in, fed and loved them, and treated them as family. Today, the three men run a half-house, a men’s Bible study, a chapter of AAA, and they take turns preaching at a small Baptist Church on the outskirts of Birmingham. It is an all-Black church.
The last man Joe visited owned a bar on the west side of Coronado, California. Duffy had taken a liking to him, especially after hearing the funniest story he’d ever heard about a one-legged chicken and a Mexican. Duffy, an ex-Navy SEAL, had more scars inside than out. He was known to everyone as the gentle giant. During the Gulf War, his SEAL Team had performed superhuman feats of heroism. After being attacked and pinned down with three wounded warriors, Duffy had repelled countless attacks until relieved. During the heaviest fighting, he had crawled over thirty yards, under heavy fire, to drag a wounded soldier to safety and bind his critical wounds. The soldier was a seventeen-year-old Iraqi boy. He had risked his life to save an enemy combatant.
Duffy, like the other two men, had listened intently as Joe asked good, intelligent questions and in return all had given him invaluable advice.
Joe made it his mission, his quest, to search out extraordinary men of valor, listen to their stories, and seek their counsel.
It was ten days before Christmas when Lizzie answered the phone:
“Please, Mom, don’t say anything; just listen. I will be away for several months and won’t be able to call, and I know how you worry. I promise I’ll be fine and will see you before you know it. Forgive me for missing Christmas, but I put a couple of things in the mail for you and Dad.”
It took all her strength but Lizzie held her tears and pushed her broken heart aside to encourage her son.
“Oh, honey, you’re the smartest guy I know, and it won’t take long. Shake those jumping beans outt’a your pants, come on home, and give your mama a hug. Tell me where I can send you some money and it’ll just be between you and me.”
Joe told her he had saved plenty of money and he would call again as soon as he could. The following morning, Joe enlisted in the military as a tactical linguist and, as very few could, intended to become a US Army Ranger.
Plans, they say, are like intentions—everything looks better on paper. His ASFAB scores were so abnormally high they were double-checked by a US Army major who oversaw such things. At 6’2”, 185 pounds, and a chiseled body, Joe went through the medical without incident. That is, discounting the flirtation by a young Navy flight surgeon named Amy. She looked at his chart again and then leaned close to his ear.
“Joseph Chandler, if you get back to San Diego I’d be happy to give you a more thorough exam.”
Joe stared at the floor until he was rescued by a US Navy lieutenant commander. The officer pulled him into a small room and closed the door.
“Young man, you are too smart and way too educated to join the Army. If your heart is set on Special Forces or Combat Infantry, at least consider the Navy Seals. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you—you would make an exceptional line officer or, better yet, a Navy pilot. Please reconsider your decision.”
Joe looked at the wings on the man’s chest, thanked him, and thirty minutes later, Joseph Daniel Chandler was sworn into the US Army. An Army major had also taken his best shot at Joe, offering an immediate slot in Officer Candidate School, but to no avail.
In less than a week, Joe received orders to join a company of his fellow recruits, on the second day of January, at Fort Benning, Georgia. By March, he was bored and wondered how some of the young men would make it without their mamas. After graduation from basic, Joe was assigned to advanced training at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, where he also excelled. His assigned language was Modern Standard Arabic, and he graduated first in his class. The following day, Joe received his orders from a lieutenant colonel.
“Specialist, you have been granted a gift and I hope you don’t disappoint me. With the combination of your academic and physical agility scores, I have recommended you for RASP, the Ranger Assessment and Selection Program at Fort Benning. Now you go out there and give ‘em hell, Chandler.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“No, Specialist, I suspect you won’t. You’re dismissed.”
After completing airborne training and his RASP-1 assessment, Joe adorned his tan beret and joined an elite group of soldiers. It was neither expedient nor necessary for him to move on to the last phase—Ranger School. For the time being, he would serve in the 75th Regimental Special Troops Battalion, or the RSTB. The special battalion was formed for soldiers such as intelligence specialist, medics and linguists to provide critical support roles to US Army Rangers. The following morning, Joe was invited to the office of Col. John Paul Kelly, the commanding officer for the 75th RSTB.
“At ease, Chandler. Looking at your performance assessment, you just might make a damn fine soldier. If you had the time in service and a little more experience, I’d send you directly on to Ranger School, but what we need right now are men with your support skills. Specialist, I’m recommending you for immediate promotion to corporal and, once approved, you will be assigned to the 75th Rangers in Djibouti. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, I have: it’s on the Horn of Africa and if I’m not mistaken, directly across the gulf from Yemen.”
“That’s right, Chandler. You are the only person I’ve met who knew that. Hell, I had to look it up myself. What else do you know about the region?”
“I know how important the Mandeb Straight is; it’s the gateway to the Suez Canal. In Arabic, sir, it’s called Bab-El-Mandeb, the Gate of Tears. Legend suggests it got its name from all the souls who lost their lives during an earthquake that divided the two continents. And, if I recall, sir, I believe French as well as Arabic is spoken there.”
“That’s impressive, Specialist, damned impressive. Didn’t want to be an officer eh, Chandler?”
“No, sir.”
“So not really thinking about a career in the Army I suppose?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Well, you should: we need more men like you. Okay, Chandler, you’re probably smart enough to have already figured this out but pay attention anyway and maybe I’ll go home tonight thinking I told you something you didn’t know.
“Africa is a mess. While we had a momentary foothold with a few bases, it’s getting damn hard to find a country who will house us. We have about 4,000 men and women at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti, and we r
un a lot of Predator Drones out of there. Unfortunately, the neighborhood is getting crowded as China just signed a one-hundred-million-dollar-a-year rental contract with the Djibouti government. That, of course, is making this current administration very nervous. I probably don’t have to tell you how much crude oil comes through those shipping lanes. Anyway, we have some Rangers over there right now and they could use your help. They need a good tactical linguist and I think you’re just the man for the job. You’re dismissed, Specialist, and good luck.”
For the entirety of his first deployment, Joe supported his team in a variety of Eastern African countries. While the 75th Rangers were in the region only to assist, train, and observe, there were thousands of radicals in Ethiopia, Sudan, Somalia, and Yemen who would be happy to kill an American soldier. Perhaps the most interesting thing to observe was the ongoing construction of the large airstrip and naval base the Chinese denied they were building.
At the completion of his first tour of duty, a US Army captain by the name of Johnson asked Joe to join him for a libation. The captain had just arrived to relieve the previous unit commander.
“Corporal, it’s not my call but it is my prerogative to ask, so I will. Word has it that you are an invaluable asset over here. I know you’ve done your time but if for any reason you wished to volunteer for a second deployment in this lovely piece of the world, I would not object. As you know, I’m the new guy and I could sure use your experience.”
Joe liked the new captain already more than his predecessor, so Joe told him he would certainly give it some thought. That is, after his thirty days of leave.
