The Fifth Battalion

by Michael Priv

  “William Hall? My buddy? My pal?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Well, Bill is about a hundred years old, eking out a living as a math professor at Stanford.” “A hundred years old?”

  “At least fifty.”

  “Okay, what else can you tell me about Bill?”

  “He invited Linda and me to a Russian place on Masonic for our last anniversary. We liked it. The Russian, the proprietor, his name’s Eugene, yeah, that was nice. Bill took me to his house, too. I got their computers cleaned up and met Eugene’s family and their housekeeper Aunt Rosa.”

  “Great! What else? Tell me more.” “Not much to tell. Bill and I, we hang out. Don’t even know what to think. Why would a middle-aged Stanford professor want to hang around with a young, depressed drunk such as myself?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “That question did cross my mind, but I never brought it up to him till our last meeting.”

  “How did you two meet?” “We met accidently about a year ago, at an AI convention at Stanford. He approached me with some small talk and then did the weirdest thing: he showed me a beat-up picture of an insect, a praying mantis, smiling, as if it were a joke. And get this—he pulled it out of his wallet. Who carries around a picture of an insect in his wallet? Crazy. I just stood there staring at the picture of that weird stick-creature. Stupid, you know? That was one awkward moment.”

  “Go on,” Jane, professional to the core, seemed fascinated by my story. “’What is this?’ I asked Bill, kind of spooked. ‘Are you an orthodontist?’ I mean… what the hell you call them? People who study insects?”

  “I get it,” Jane assured me. “Yeah. So, I asked. Bill stopped smiling but said nothing. Awkward. He put the picture away. We kept talking, he introduced himself. That was how we met. We’ve been meeting pretty much every Saturday ever since. What does he want from me? Pisses me off. So, I lost it with Bill last Saturday.”

  “Tell me in detail.” “You know, I came there as usual.” In my mind’s eye I saw Bill’s Eichler-style coop in Sunnyvale. It looked pretty much like the other astronomically overpriced shacks up and down the street.

  I never knew B ill’s wife. She died of cancer several years back, before my time. The unhappy circumstance of her demise, I suspected, left a gaping hole in Bill’s housekeeping practices. His place was a mess, even for me. His housekeeping habits were probably at least partially to blame for the fact that he did not have a girlfriend for two years, three months and eight days—unlike me. I had Linda.

  The wife’s death however, failed to leave any noticeable mark on Bill’s psyche. “Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?” Bill used to say, quoting his favorite philosopher, Groucho Marx. He never took anything seriously. Bill was a kind and genial man, the only person I knew who’d actually quote Groucho and wear earth-toned cardigans at home.

  I continued, “At his kitchen table, sipping on my coffee, I complained to Bill that I was very depressed and saw no purpose in anything. Bill said that I had to supply my own purpose and meaning to life and that nobody would do it for me. He said anything was fine whatever floated my boat, but first I needed to get a boat to float.”

  “A boat to float? As in ‘get a life?’” Jane made a note on a yellow pad she held in her hand. “Exactly. He told me to create a life for myself— a life I could live with.” I ran my hand through my hair, remembering our conversation. “He said the weirdest thing then. He said that life was a mission. I needed a mission. What a strange guy. And just hanging around with me as a friend, you know? Just weird.”

  “Why is your friendship weird?” “Jane, have you been listening to me? Bill is a respected, well - to-do Stanford professor double my age, driving a brand spanking new Mercedes. Do we look like a match?”

  Jane nodded her understanding. Once again I felt a little bit of the anger that unexpectedly welled up in me at that moment at Bill’s house, threatening to burst through.

  “What did you tell him?” Jane asked. “My anger did burst through against my better judgment. I asked him what the hell he wanted from me and why he insisted on hanging around. I called him a perv, grooming me for something despicable.”

  “And how did Bill react to that?” “ Waved me off. He seemed completely unruffled. “I want the truth, Bill, I mean it! What the hell do you want from me?” I remembered myself saying, calming down somewhat. I could see him now in my mind.

  “The truth?” Bill furrowed his eyebrow. With a sigh, he got more comfortable in his favorite chair and reached for his special recipe steaming half-cognac Arabica. He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure you want the actual truth? It may be a bit too thick for you right now.”

  Then, at Bill’s kitchen table, I stared in my coffee. Black. Tortured by premonitions, I knew, as I had always known, that there may well have been some kind of truth that was hidden from me.

  “He was about to tell me the truth,” I told Jane. “I was sitting there waiting, feeling all worried. I asked him again.”

  “Go on,” Jane prompted. If she thought I was crazy, she hid it well. A true professional. Sure, she sees nuts like me here day in and day out. Even on weekends. Maybe some are even crazier thanme,but that’d be unlikely.

  “What exactly did he tell you?” Dr. Rosenthal seemed genuinely interested. “Can you relay his words to me as he was saying them?” “He said we were all members of a military unit, some battalion. We landed on this planet over five thousand years ago as the advance contingent of an invasion force in the Andes somewhere. But this place turned out to be an enemy prison planet or something like that. Since the prisoners aren’t supposed to know it’s a prison, the guards keep out of sight to uphold the illusion that this isn’t a prison. Bill said we didn’t even know they were here. We thought it was just another Stone Age planet. But the guards took it as an act of war and whacked us. Now we can’t get out. Complete bullshit.”

  “And what was your reply?” She was positively non-committal. “I felt anger. He was taking me for a fool. I slapped the table and spilled the coffee. I said ‘You think I’m crazy? You’re an extraterrestrial from some invasion five thousand years ago? Enemy prison planet? You expect me to believe this shit?! You’re nuts!’”

  “Tell me more about the anger you felt.”

  “Well, he took me for a fool. He was playing me. I felt upset.”

  “ Were you hiding anything from him? Anything you did not voice—perhaps something that happened that you knew or suspected he should’ve known about?”

  “ What could I be hiding? Well, maybe just for a few days prior to our conversation I kept seeing this taxi cab with a black number 3415 on it. Seemed I was being watched. Is that something I should’ve told him? How would I know if I should have or shouldn’t have?”

  “When did the surveillance start?” Casual as usual, Jane was overdoing it now. Even I saw the news tensed her up. “Probably two days prior. Maybe earlier. Who knows!” “Is it still on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you still think Bill was playing you?”

  “Why? Does he have anything to do with it? Did he get me in trouble? I knew it!” “We are all in the same boat, Norman. We are helping you get back on line, so to speak. My question was if you really felt he was playing you.”

  She said “we.” She was in on this. Great! “You too? No idea anymore. What am I supposed to think?” From her chair Jane walked around the desk and stood right over me. I tensed and sat straight. She leaned toward me so her eyes were even with mine, only about a foot apart. Damn this lady, she really did smell good. Jane peered deep into my eyes. “I feel for you, Norm. None of it is easy to grasp. But you must make an effort. We don’t have much time.”

  “Who’s we?” I asked. “That military unit that Bill told you about, the 5th Battalion, is real. Bill, you, me, we are all a part of it. What you’re doing now is restoring your long-term memory with my help. We’re working together. Do
you understand?”

  I nodded, kind of numb. This was really too much. “Is it going to work?” I asked. “Hope so,” Jane replied. “Are you with me?”

  “Yes, count me in,” I said surprising myself.

  Jane patted my face. She smiled. “Okay, let’s take a break. Help yourself to some sandwiches in the waiting room. They’re for you. I’ll make coffee. You’re welcome to the Perrier in my fridge, too. Then we reconvene, okay?”

  “Yes, mam!” I saluted. I was supposedly a soldier, wasn’t I? Had to stay in character.

  Dr. Rosenthal left her office feigning amusement, as if I said or did something funny. The sandwich was tasty. Peperchinies make anything taste good. Munching on my tasty lunch, I remembered our first meeting the day before. Dr. Rosenthal made quite an impression on me in that first session when I first met her.

  I remembered my first visit the day earlier. If there ever was a stereotypical psychotherapist, Dr. Rosenthal, wasn’t it. First of all, I expected a he, but he was a she, and, second, she was one sexy lady. Not yet old, in great shape, with the air of confident, sophisticated femininity about her, she made no attempt to hide her slender legs or obscure the perfect curves of her body. Her warmly gleaming green eyes brimmed with intelligence. I liked the way her elegant face was framed in shoulder-length perfectly groomed and shiny auburn hair. She smelled good, too. Dr. Rosenthal had slowly run her immaculate, sexy fingers over the front of her silk blouse, adjusting an exquisite sapphire necklace. I caught myself staring at her hand on her chest. For a second, with a ping of guilt I felt happy that Linda had not accompanied me. Dr. Rosenthal was quietly watching me watch her.

  I had asked her, “Are you a sex therapist, Dr. Rosenthal? Just making sure I have the right office.”

  “No, I’m not a sex therapist. I’m simply myself. Call me Jane. Do you like me being myself?”

  “I sure do.”

  “I want you to be yourself,” Jane showed her perfect teeth. “Do you want to be yourself?”

  “Do I have to? Can I be you? Educated, nice legs and all…” “Don’t you like your own legs? Just think, wouldn’t that be wonderful if you really liked yourself? Let’s work together to find the causes of why you’d rather be someone else. Let’s start with who you are. Who are you, really, Norman?”

  “Who, me?” I had been taken aback. “Name’s Norman Bolstad; I’m almost twenty-seven, six feet, size eleven shoes. What else?” “Are you sure? Almost twenty -seven? Like twenty-six and a half? Size eleven shoes, you said?” She chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s try again. Who are you really? Look deeper.”

  I thought hard. I looked deeper. I shrugged. “I guess you’ll tell me.”

  “I’ll do better. I will help you find out. Is that all right with you?” Her eyes smiled at me warmly. I liked that. “Yes.” I felt more at ease with the remarkable lady. Not even five minutes into my therapy, and I had already learned a couple of important things. First, it was okay to be myself. Who knew? And, second, I had no idea who I was.

  “Tell me about your life,” Jane made herself more comfortable, ready to listen.

  I told her briefly what I could. She asked a few questions, but mainly listened. “You told me about your parents, about Linda, your work buddies and other people in your life, but you never mentioned Bill Hall. Bill is important,” Jane explained to me then. “I would like to do a bit of a regression therapy with you, using Bill as the regression subject. Do you understand what regression therapy is?”

  “Nope.” “Regression is locating and reliving earlier experiences that might have caused your present problems. We will attempt to touch upon ignored or repressed experiences that may contain emotional wounds that never healed. You understand? They may affect you now.”

  I nodded. “Finding and reliving such experiences may unlock emotions and bring new insights into your life, as well as let any old mental and physical trauma heal.”

  “And what’s a regression subject? You want to use Bill as the regression subject.” “Yes, I do. A regression subject is a person or event which can be used as a recurring subject to remember, going earlier and earlier in time. A lunch, for example. I could ask you to remember the lunch you had yesterday, then the day before, then any lunch last week and so on, earlier and earlier.”

  “Ok ay, I got it. I’ll be remembering my encounters with Bill.” “Exactly. Let’s try? Are you with me?”

  “Well, just have to let you know that I’m scared to death of hypnosis.” Jane shook her beautiful head. “ You may possibly drop into a light trance. I want you to be fully cognizant. I want you to remember. I want you to be the opposite of unconscious. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.” “ Good. Now relax. Let go. Stop trying to control or censor the pictures and sounds and simply tell me what comes to mind. That is all I want. Agreed?”

  I nodded. Fear tied my insides in a knot. I was not comfortable with mentally going back in time, but confronted with my drinking, depression and suicidal tendencies, I knew I had to do something and soon. Okay. Bring it on.

  That was our first session. At first we struggled a bit with that regression therapy. I grew increasingly restless and despondent. We didn’t get anywhere and finally ended the session. Afterwards I went home, to my digs, my hovel. Yvette, my pet sparrow, was asleep already in her favorite soup bowl in my kitchen cupboard, which she called home.

  My mom called from our family home in Modesto, we talked for a bit. It was nice to hear her voice. Too bad my dad died a few years back. He was a good guy. He’d definitely like Linda. Mom did.

  Then I talked to Linda, wished her a good night, we chatted a bit. Then I fell asleep. Next morning I went to work. Then later that day I had my second session—am having my second session. This time I hit the Pyrenees right away.

  3

  Yes, this time I hit the Pyrenees blood bath right off. Boy, what a hit. “Tell me more about Bill,” Dr. Rosenthal instructed as soon as we reconvened after I finished the tasty sandwich and coffee. My head felt better now. Maybe all I needed was some food. Or coffee.

  “I don’t really know him that well. Just another happy go lucky Stanford professor, I guess,” I shrugged. “Now I’m told he is my old battalion buddy. Crazy. Don’t know what to think.”

  “Okay, don’t fret. We’ll get it all sorted out. Close your eyes,” Jane nodded her reassurance. “Take a few slow, deep breaths, relax, listen to my voice.”

  I did. I hid there, waiting in my sanctum behind closed eyelids in anticipation of the terrifying unknown. What I really wanted was to dash the hell out of that office. But I stayed. If nothing else, this was a chance to end my depressions. I felt it was my duty to take it. For Linda. Sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

  “ Breathe slowly. That’s good. Relax. Now, let’s go through your meetings with Bill from the latest to the earliest that you can remember.”

  We went over several of my meetings with Bill —again, just like before—moving ever earlier. Bored, I kept at it. It did not take long to reach our first meeting at the AI conference.

  “Tell me an earlier time you met Bill,” Jane ordered firmly. “We never met earlier. That was the first time.”

  “ Take a look. Relax. Do not think or filter your responses. Just tell me what comes to mind—a picture, a sound, an emotion, anything. Go earlier in time and find an earlier meeting with Bill. Something before the AI conference at Stanford. See anything?”

  “I’m telling you…” I started but then stopped, assaulted by noise. Next instant my insides dropped, leaving a terrifying void in the center of my being. I saw it, the trench, clad in roughly sawn wooden boards, and the explosions of incoming artillery fire. The stench of death from the noman’s land hit me like an uppercut, making me cough.

  “What is it?” Dr. Rosenthal asked very softly. She knew I got something. “Belgium,” I breathed out with conviction. Was I making this up? Damn, it felt real. I knewwhere it was. I knewit. “Yeah, B
elgium,” my voice caught. “Am I crazy?” I was not imagining it. “1916. World War I.” The picture hit me full force. The unbearable horror of being at the receiving end of sustained artillery fire and the stench of thousands of decomposing bodies on the noman’s land, competing with the equally unsavory smells of gun powder, unwashed bodies and excrement. War.

  “And Bill?”

  “Who?”

  Bill was not my concern at the moment. The ground shook and explosions choked me with acrid smoke and dirt. The powerful booms were about to blow my eardrums out. Covering my ears, I opened my mouth a bit to even out the air pressure. The rifle was squeezed hard between my knees, as if my life depended on not letting it go— which it probably did. The German infantry attack was soon to follow. My heart was clucking in my throat like a very small terrified bird. I was scared to death it was momentarily going to stop clacking altogether.

  “I’m here, Norm, you’re safe,” Jane’s voice reached me from some place safe, half a world away. I opened my eyes. What I lived through just a second ago in my mind was terrifyingly real.

  Scrunched in the armchair in Jane’s office, I was gripping my ears hard.

  “Whew! What a mess,” I mumbled. Beads of sweat ran down my neck. “Very good ! Would you like something to drink?” Jane handed me a Perrier. I gulped the refreshing, bubbly coldness and nodded my gratitude. “All good? Take a breath and close your eyes,” Jane instructed calmly when I was done.

  With my eyes closed, I tentatively let my mind pull me back into that horrifying trench. Relieved, I noticed that it did not feel nearly as bad now, as if the edge was taken off that experience. It stunk of decomposing bodies and feces, so what? The bombardment was very loud and the ground shook most uncomfortably, but it occurred to me that in that trench we were well protected against the near-hits, while the chance of a direct hit was low, considering the angle of attack of the artillery shells. Things could’ve gotten outright shitty if they used mortars—and they had when they could. Germans had already invented howitzers, too. Germans lovedtheir howitzers, the fucken Bosches, branleur de chiensworts. Wait, what?! Swearing in French?