As are easy. Perfect Cs are hard.
While in Rota I went to the US Embassy and arranged to take their Spanish Language Examination. Four hours later I was officially declared “Fluent in written and spoken Spanish,” which counted towards promotion. I got drunk as a skunk that night. That was major promotion points.
Back stateside I figured “What the hell” and took the tests for various languages I’d picked up over the years. Some of the oral ones I failed the first time through. Written, I was found fluent in: Spanish (covered), Ancient and Modern Greek, Latin, German (three dialects including Old Schwabian), Arabic and Japanese. I couldn’t find, through military or local colleges, tests in Hindi, Hittite or Hieroglyphs. It was like they hated the letter H.
Based on my gunnery sergeant’s recommendation, I was made PFC ahead of curve. ’Cause I just oozed the epitome of Marine. I went to the Marine of the Month Board and smoked it, up to the MEU level where I had a case of the flu for the PT test at Post and got beat out by one point.
Then when all the numbers were crunched at wherever the Marine Corps crunches them, I went from PFC to lance then corporal so fast people were pretty sure I was homosexual and seriously blowing someone.
I was expert in every weapon in the inventory (promotion points), proven multilingual (promotion points), had sixty credit hours of college (promotion points), not a single NJP (non-judicial punishment) and basically walked the walk and talked the talk of the perfect Marine.
I was well on my way to making sergeant my first tour. When I went home on leave (to the Brentwoods, of course), Mrs. Brentwood was proud as hell. I sort of wanted to call my mom and tell her I’d gotten promoted from Babykiller to Senior Master Babykiller but refrained. I’d just sort of tried to forget I had been birthed by that woman.
Then we got shipped to Beirut.
Those of you with some intimate knowledge of Marine history might have noticed that my unit was First of the Eighth and it was the early eighties. Those of you with some knowledge of history may see where this was going at this point. For those of you who are totally clueless as to why “Marine” and “Beirut” might have some historical issues…look it up.
A few things about the mission. First, President Ronald Reagan was, arguably, one of the top five presidents of all time. I’m not going to argue that, just saying. My memoir, my opinion. But the mission was idiotic. Probably his one major stupid in his career as president. Why?
There is no such thing as a “peacekeeping mission” in the Middle East. Period. The Middle East has been at war, literally, since the dawn of history. The first known army in the world, as we recognize armies, was Sargon’s at the beginning of written history. Sargon’s conquests practically are our first written histories. (And, to be clear, Sargon was in the Middle East. Currently where Iraq is.)
There is no keeping the peace there. It’s a myth. The only way you could keep the peace in the Middle East (and I am NOT advocating this) is kill absolutely every man, woman and child. And I do mean every single one. Kurds, Arabs, Druze, Israelis, Lebanese Christians, Iranians, Iraqis, everybody. Because every group over there has a case of the ass at every other group and not damned ONE of them can just talk it out.
Not advocating that. Just saying.
The mission reminded me of a saying down South. Some of you may not know what a yellow jacket nest is. Some places they’re called ground hornets. When it rains in the South, which is mostly red clay, the holes they dig can become slippery. Saying goes like this:
“No matter how round and slick and invitin’ it might look, don’t never stick your dick in a hornet’s nest.”
What President Reagan did was stick Uncle Sam’s dick in a hornet’s nest. God, I love the man, and his current condition makes me want to weep. But that was his one truly bonehead move. Everybody’s due one. I just wish it hadn’t been at the expense of my brothers…and me.
But this is where my story really begins.
CHAPTER 2
I was having a dream. A really odd one. Generally my dreams involved a blonde on a beach who was very open minded. In this case, I was standing on a dock on a lake. The water was a perfect blue as was the sky. There were hills on the far side and they were such a perfect green it was literally unearthly. It was, easily, the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.
I wasn’t alone, either. There was a guy sitting at the end of the dock trying to get his reel to work. It was obviously snarled. Next to him, to his right, was a bucket presumably filled with bait. And another fishing pole. The guy was wearing a T-shirt and ball cap.
I went over, sat down on the end of the dock and examined him more closely. He was maybe in his fifties, long brown hair and beard. He looked sort of like the various ragheads I’d come to known and loathe (Christian or Muslim they were all ragheads to the One-Eight and equally shitty.) But I didn’t really get a “loathe” vibe from him. The ball cap was a New Orleans Saints cap.
The bait was as odd as the rest of the place. It sort of looked like bread but the smell coming from it was heavenly. I pulled out a pinch. Sniff. Yeah, smelled like honey and…I don’t know what. Ambrosia came to mind. I couldn’t resist and tried a bite.
I could literally live on that stuff the rest of my life. And that was the bait.
“What is this stuff?” I asked.
“Manna,” the man said.
I put some bait on the hook, took another bite, and tossed out the line.
“You want this one, sir?” I asked. “I can get that undone.”
He hadn’t even taken the cover off the reel. He was never getting it fixed that way.
“I don’t want to use the term ‘hate’ for something like this,” the guy said. “It’s too strong a word. But I…dislike and don’t understand these modern things. This is not what I call fishing.”
He took the rod from me and nodded thanks.
“So…” I said, starting to fix the line. “This is an odd dream.”
“You usually dream about girls on a beach with low morals,” the man said.
“Generally,” I replied. I looked down into the water and it was as clear as air. I could see a school of fish, they looked like koi, below us. I really couldn’t tell how big they were because it was so clear I couldn’t get a feeling for distance. Below them were…There wasn’t a bottom. Waaaay down there were what looked like clouds. And maybe more water. And…
“Is that…earth down there?” I asked as something whipped past. “And was that a satellite?”
“Those things,” the man said with a slightly aggrieved sigh. “The Boss says they’re just temporary until humans figure out quantum tunneling. Whatever that is. Way over my pay grade.”
He had what must have been one of the gentlest bites in history. More like the fish politely tugged on the line to get his attention. He carefully reeled in and the koi simply followed the line in, no fighting. When it got to the dock, it carefully spit out the blunt hook. The man tossed it a ball of the bait and it kicked its tail and swam away.
“I’m starting to get the feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
“You weren’t in Kansas when you died,” the man said then winced. “Sorry, that came out rather abruptly.”
“Uhm. Okay. Last I remember I was hitting the rack in the barracks.” I looked around. There was a distinct lack of hellfire and brimstone which was good. But, honestly, fishing like this for the rest of eternity might just turn into hell ’cause I was already seriously bored. “Do I get to know what happened?”
“Truck bomb. I regret to inform you that the rest of your platoon is, in fact, already through…in-process and settling in nicely.” He seemed from time to time to be listening to someone as if he was getting a radio call with the right terms.
“I guess I’m a borderline case?” I asked. “Few too many girlfriends?”
“While you’re a borderline case, not for that reason.”
“Honor thy father and thy mother?” I asked. “I’d be an atheist
with no morals or conscience whatsoever. Like, say, my brother?”
“Not an issue,” the man said.
“So…” I asked. “What’s my problem?”
“The Boss thinks you’ve got some stuff to do back on earth,” the man said. “And you’re the right candidate to do it. So, up to you, there might be a minor miracle. To be honest, and that’s sort of what we’re supposed to be, you probably should ask for a straight pass to the next point. You’re already in, that’s not the problem. But the Boss wants you to do some stuff, first. Reason you might want to ask for this cup to pass from your lips is…Well, the best that’s going to happen is minor miracle. Going back is going to seriously hurt. As in ‘Did I just get shipped to Hell?’ hurt. And the rest of your life is going to be no picnic, either.”
“Stuff like make up with my parents?”
“Boss, no,” the man said. “Your mother is a harpy, your brother is headed in the direction of purest evil and your father is a sexual predator of impressionable young women. Stay as far away from those people as you can! Stuff like on a mission, stuff.”
“From G…” I said then hesitated. “The Boss.”
“Big Guy,” the man said. “Patriarchal Beard in the Sky as your mother would put it. Yeah.”
“Don’t get me wrong when I ask this. Are there any benefits? ’Cause if I stay here, the benefits are obvious. And you did mention pain. I suspect that’s something like every bone in my body broken in the blast.”
“You already got the benefits, son,” the man said. “You think those remarkable physical skills, the ease in learning, the fluency with languages, you think that was all genetics?”
“Point,” I said. I thought about it for a moment. What would Mr. Brentwood do? Put that way, the answer was obvious. If he was told he had a mission from God, he’d face any challenge to complete it.
“Minor miracle it is,” I said. “‘Duty is heavier than mountains. Death is lighter than a feather.’ If it’s my duty to go back, well, that’s my duty.”
“Then in a bit you’ll wake up, briefly, under your desk,” the man said. “Briefly because you’ll almost immediately pass out from agony. The minor miracle will be that you were blown off your bed under your desk which the wall-locker then fell on protecting at least part of your body from the cascading rubble.”
“That would require a ninety degree turn,” I said, thinking about the arrangement of my barracks room.
“Thus the minor miracle.”
“Okay. Since it hasn’t come up, can I ask you your name, sir?”
“Just call me Pete. You ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, putting down the rod.
“There is one last bit,” Pete said. “The Boss sent a message. There will be a sign. And the sign shall be:” He paused dramatically. “Fifty-Seven.”
“Does the Boss realize that the single most popular brand of ketchup on earth has a fifty-seven on every bottle?” I asked. “I’m supposed to look for a separate and singular fifty-seven?”
“That’s all I’ve got,” Pete said. “The Boss is a very busy guy. That’s the real reason His messages tend to be cryptic. Ever read an email from a Fortune Five-Hundred CEO? Short, blunt, to the point and nearly indecipherable. That’s what I got. ‘Throw him back if he will. Job to do. Sign shall be fifty-seven.’ Up to you to figure it out.”
“What’s an email?” I asked.
“Take a deep breath,” St. Peter said. “Remember to look for the sign. This is going to hurt…”
* * *
OH FUTHERMUCKER!
I choked twice in total darkness. I could taste copper and the pain went through into some special place that was impossible to experience and survive. Then I passed out.
I woke up again when the pain went through the roof. There was light and dust.
“We found one!”
I coughed again, somehow realizing I had nearly been out of air. I gasped and the pain was too much…
A helicopter. Light and shadow. The smell of jet fuel and a hot deck. Someone bent over me praying. I got clear headed enough to try to mutter: “Don’t bother. You’re late.”
The first clear memory was being in a darkened hospital ward with an oxygen mask on my face, a really dry mouth and so high on painkillers it would have made my mother weep with joy if I took it up as a habit. From the furniture I could see and the layout it wasn’t a hospital in the States. I couldn’t really move. Part of that was I didn’t want to move, ’cause I could tell there would be more pain if I did, and part of that was the more or less full body cast. All I could really see was IVs, lots of plaster and both my legs and right arm up in traction. Presumably I still had a left arm. I tried to lift it. I could see it and it was moving but not real well. I decided it was just pure weakness and not nerve damage. But it wasn’t getting me a drink either way.
I hated to do it but I let out a moan. Best I could do. I was hoping some kind soul would hear it and maybe put a straw to my lips or something.
Nada.
I passed out shortly thereafter and never saw a soul the whole time.
The next time I woke up the ward was bustling with doctors and nurses, several of whom were speaking Greek.
“Nero?” I whispered. It was the best I could do. “Nero?”
“You want some water?” one of the nurses said, noticing the whispers.
“Parakaló̱,” I replied.
She put a straw to my lips and I gulped the water down.
“Sas ef̱charistó̱,” I muttered.
“You are American, yes?” she asked, confused.
“I speak a little Greek,” I said. “Where?”
“You are in the military hospital of Heraclea Airbase,” she said. “You were injured in a bombing of your barracks.”
“Unit?” I asked.
“I don’t have any information on that,” she said, unhappily. I was pretty sure that was a lie. “One of the officers will speak to you shortly.”
“Again, Sas ef̱charistó̱,” I said. “Back to sleep now…”
There had been a truck bomb. Everyone else in my platoon hadn’t made it. Bought the farm. Pushin’ daisies. There had been a minor miracle in my case. I’d somehow ended up shielded by my desk.
I could have rationalized the dream. The brain does funky things with trauma. The dream could have been reconstructed memory.
That would have required me being as completely idiotic as the rest of my family.
Shortly after I’d gotten the full skinny, a chaplain came through the ward bringing aid and comfort. He already had my religion. As the biggest stick in the eye I could imagine to my mother, if she ever found out, when asked my religion in MEPS I’d answered “Primitive Baptist.” I really had no idea what Primitive Baptist meant but it sounded bad. The chaplain, an Episcopalian, tried manfully to support me in my simple faith.
“Father,” I said as he was trying to figure out how to deal with a bereaved Primitive Baptist. Should he ask if there were snakes available? “Primitive Baptist was a joke. I was raised Atheist. My mother refers to me as a babykiller.”
“Oh,” he said then: “What?”
“No offense but is there a Catholic priest around? And how do I officially change my religion?”
A Catholic chaplain eventually made the rounds. He was a young captain, Air Force, who was Vietnamese of all things. I’d gotten to the point that I could more than grunt and moan by that time. So we talked. He had no problem with the vision or the possibility that it was simply a pain and trauma induced dream. Either one worked equally well in his mind. He dismissed it being reconstructed. Based on my general knowledge, I could have created it while trapped in the rubble. Or it could have been Saint Peter.
“The real question is the matter of the sign,” Father Van said, thoughtfully. “It very well might involve a bottle of ketchup. Stranger signs have happened. But I rather think it will be something else. Just leave yourself open to the sign revealing itself. You don’t have to look
for signs, my son. A sign from God is always rather clear.”
He had the inclination, but not the time, to go through all the matters necessary to convert to the Catholic faith. He suggested, since I was shortly going to be shipped stateside, that I do so there. And possibly when I’d gotten out of the full body cast.
“Pretty hard to kneel like this, sir.”
“Keep the faith, my son,” Father Van said. “And that saving sense of humor.”
I was eventually put on a plane and shipped half-way around the world to end up at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington, DC. Same place they took President Reagan. Who, without any word to the press, met the plane, talked to all of us and shook my one good hand.
He looked me right in the eye as he shook my hand with his left.
“Glad to have you back, son,” the President said, solemnly. “You’re a credit to the Marine Corps.”
“And as soon as I’m out of these casts, I’m going to be back in action, Mr. President.”
You could tell he was trying not to tear up.
The White House photographer took our picture together. I have it framed on my wall, President Reagan smiling solemnly and me grinning ear-to-ear in my full body cast. Which he even signed.
He’d made a lousy choice to proceed with that particular mission. Dick, hornet’s nest. He’s still one of the two greatest presidents of the twentieth century and I’m going to almost give him the edge on Eisenhower.
Then came possibly the single worst moment of my life. Including waking up in hellish pain in the rubble of the destroyed barracks.
My mother came to visit.
Picture if you will. It was an open bay ward. By the 1980s, even for enlisted they preferred shared rooms. The bay looked as if it hadn’t been used since the Vietnam War. When I mentioned that, one of the nurses admitted it hadn’t been used since World War II, just updated. Slightly.
And in comes my mother. Because, as “next-of-kin,” she’d been informed her precious son had been returned to the United States. And why don’t you visit?
I guess she managed to keep her mouth shut past security. But once she was on the ward, all hell broke loose.
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