“This is Lima Papa 1. Go ahead, Romeo 6, over.” LG was gasping during his response, out of breath from the physical workout.
“What is your status?” Rock asked. “Do you need help?”
“Negative. Our sit-rep is green at the moment. We heard movement in our front, and then within minutes, three grenades landed in our position. We had to evade and are both okay, over.”
“We heard four explosions,” Rock responded. “Where did they come from?”
“Uh... the three enemy grenades appeared to be duds. The four explosions you heard were from our grenades, over.”
There was a slight delay before Rock responded, a bit louder this time.
“Roger, Papa 1. You mean to tell me that whoever was out there threw three grenades at you and all three were duds?”
“Affirmative, over.”
“Have you confirmed the presence of these three dud grenades?”
“Negative, it’s too dark to look for them.”
Just then, a large whining screech sounded from the treetops above them. It began with a shrill scream, then evolved into a hum that dropped down the musical scale until it reached a deep bass tone, continuing at that level for a few more seconds before stopping. After a brief delay, another loud screech gave an encore of the same performance.
“Lima Papa 1, is that an animal call nearby?”
“Roger, Romeo 6. It seems to be coming from the same area where we had all the movement.”
Once again, Rock was silent for a moment. The CP radio operator broke in before Rock could speak again.
“Break, break, Lima Papa 1, this is Thunder 3, over.” The voice sounded tense and with a slight hint of irritation.
LG looked at Polack and whispered,
“Uh-oh. Sounds like somebody in the CP is pissed.”
Polack shook his head,
“I’m hip, bro.”
He positioned himself to listen in on the shared receiver while LG talked.
“Ah, this is Lima Papa 1, go ahead, Thunder 3.”
“Roger, Lima Papa 1. Bulldog 1 wants to know if you saw enemy soldiers or did you respond only to the movement. Over.”
“This is Lima Papa 1. The sound was moving toward us and then stopped about thirty feet to our front. It was quiet for five minutes, then grenades started landing in our position. All three projectiles failed to detonate, and while taking evasive action, we returned fire by tossing grenades back at them. Over.”
“This is Bulldog 1,” his voice a deep baritone, yet sincere and father-like. “Understand that you took evasive action on what turned out to be three dud enemy grenades and then responded with grenades of your own in retaliation? Am I correct?”
“Affirmative, Bulldog 1.”
“But you haven’t been able to verify the existence of the dud grenades and hadn’t received weapons fire from the suspected enemy?”
“Affirmative, Bulldog 1.”
“... Okay, son... I think there’s a lesson to be learned here.”
He chuckled before he continued, “I think the shriek you heard moments ago came from your attacker.”
“Say again, Bulldog 1. The sound we heard wasn’t human.”
The men shifted uncomfortably and wondered what the colonel was getting at.
“This is Bulldog 1. Have you ever encountered apes or monkeys in the bush?”
Polack shook his head side to side.
“Uh, negative, Bulldog 1.”
“Monkeys and Rock Apes are highly territorial. Males throw things to show dominance over other creatures. In your case, I’d be willing to bet that a male of the species wanted you to move out and threw rocks to intimidate you so you’d leave. And since four grenades didn’t silence him, chances are he dropped them from the treetops directly above you.”
LG and Polack were at a total loss for words. When LG finally found his voice, he was only able to utter a single word,
“O... kay.”
The colonel returned after a moment. “I still want to commend you for taking the initiative to engage towards a potential threat. I will caution you, though, to continue your vigilance. The enemy is still out there. Bulldog 1, out.”
The two men, mortified, were silent for a few moments.
“Folks are going to come down on us big time in the morning,” LG sighed, before settling comfortably back against the small tree for the last hour and a half of their shift.
“I hear you, LG. But fuck ‘em all!”
“Dat’s right! None of the other brothers in the company would have acted any different. But just to be safe, we should keep this between you and me. No use giving anybody a reason to get into our shit.”
Polack followed LG’s lead and returned to his lookout position against the second tree.
“Here it comes!” he muttered.
Only five minutes passed before the CP began another round of calls for sit-reps, as the clock read 0400 hours.
“Lima Papa 1, sit-rep,” Thunder 3 called.
Instead of clicking once, LG responded,
“This is Lima Papa 1. Since everyone knows we’re out here now, we’re requesting permission to return to the firebase, over.”
“This is Thunder 3, negative on your return. Remain in position, keep your eyes open... and watch out for falling rocks! Out. Lima Papa 2, sit-rep...”
“Cocksucker!” both men exclaimed at the same time.
“They think this shit is funny. I wonder how they’d feel being in our boots.”
“Don’t mean nothin’, LG. Let it go, man!”
He thought about it for a second or two,
“Yeah, you right, bro’! But I’m telling ya’ right now that if another rock or whatever lands nearby, I’m outta here!”
“I’ll be right behind ya’, bud!”
As the adrenaline drained from their bodies, both men began to shake as violently as if they were sitting in a blizzard in the middle of winter without a coat. The lack of sleep was also taking its toll. Both were drowsy and fought hard to stay awake and, more importantly, to remain alert.
There was a little more than an hour to go before they could break camp and return to the firebase. Both were looking forward to a hot breakfast, coffee, and sleep, in that order.
Polack continued to shiver and thought back to another childhood experience when he needed to act in spite of his fear.
THIRTEEN – BELLE ISLE: SWIMMING IN THE RIVER
Belle Isle is a small island in the middle of the half-mile wide Detroit River, located between the shores of downtown Detroit and Windsor, Ontario, Canada. The island has a notorious background including its usage as a loading point for bootleggers, ferrying alcohol from Canada during Prohibition. One obtained access to the island by crossing over a quarter-mile long bridge from the east shore of Detroit, unless of course, one has a boat; several marinas with docks could moor any size watercraft. In 1906, it was from this very same bridge that the famed magician, Harry Houdini, attempted a dangerous trick called the “Overboard Packing Box Escape”. For the performance, Houdini was tied and handcuffed inside of a wooden box. The box was then nailed and tied shut with overlapping ropes. Finally, with Houdini inside, the crate was lowered through a hole in the ice of the river. Houdini had mere seconds to escape from both the restraints and the box. The myth we all heard while growing up in the old neighborhood was that Houdini had drowned in these waters during a similar failed stunt, but in reality, his trick was a success and a nearby boat picked him up. He died twenty years later in 1926.
The residents of Detroit came to this island for relaxation and to escape the heat and stresses of big city living. During a summer weekend, the beaches, picnic areas, athletic fields, zoo, aquarium, and flower gardens overflowed with visitors.
As an alternative to visiting the crowded public places, many people simply cruised the loop around the island, driving slowly to enjoy the cool island air. The panorama of freshly manicured lawns, ornamental flower beds lining the road, and lovers paddling canoes through
the many internal canals were enough to tranquilize the senses.
It was common to see families either sitting on blankets at the shoreline or sitting in parked cars on the side of the road. Everyone watched in awe as giant lake freighters and pleasure boats passed by in both directions.
For families of modest means – such as mine – Belle Isle offered the closest thing to a vacation they’d experience, and for many, it was their only frame of reference for the great outdoors.
In the early 1960’s, our family lived only a few blocks away from the Belle Isle bridge. During the summer months, my friends and I spent every sunny day on the island. As preteens, we either bummed a ride or walked to the beach. Being fearless and feeling invincible, we sometimes ended up doing stupid things that appeared to be an adventure at the time.
We usually spent our days at the boathouse adjacent to the beach. The wooden docks rose five feet above the water and extended beyond a line of barrels, marking a boundary for swimmers. Water depths at the dock’s end were eight to ten feet. Nearby lifeguards allowed swimmers to jump and dive from them; wooden ladders made it easy for swimmers to climb out of the water for a repeat performance. Here, the riverbed was “mushy” and covered with seaweed. One of our in-group challenges was to see who could jump the deepest into the muck below; the texture was like melted clay and left telltale prints on our legs, coating them with a mixture of goop that remained until we scraped it off with a stick or flat stone, making it easy to determine the winner.
We had all experienced going too deep into the muck and getting stuck on occasion. Panic stricken, we’d claw at the seaweed and try desperately to escape from the suction imprisoning us. It seemed like the more we panicked, the more difficult it was to get free. We couldn’t use our hands to push off from the bottom because of the mucky texture. Through trial and error, we soon learned that if we relaxed and tried to crawl along the bottom, we could pull ourselves free and rise to the top.
I do remember one time when one of us got into trouble and almost drowned. Michael Tomas, the youngest and skinniest of the group, jumped in and wasn’t coming back up. We stood there on the deck waiting for him to surface and watched the water for signs. When a stream of bubbles burst to the surface, the three of us jumped in without hesitation. Michael had trapped himself in slime beyond his knees but he was conscious when we managed to pull him free and get him back onto the dock. Thankfully, he was still breathing. It was a good thing, too, because none of us guys were willing to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation! We all laughed about the incident later, but the lifeguard wasn’t pleased. He expelled us from the docks, thus ending our day of swimming.
Another time, a construction company was repairing the bridge by working from a floating platform on the river. They had constructed scaffolding on the raft extending fifty feet up to the underside of the arched structure. The platform, anchored about the same distance from the seawall, sat on the city side of the river, in front of the massive Wonder Bread Company monument; a three-story replica of an antique black iron kitchen stove which faced Jefferson Avenue.
We had no idea of the water’s depth but thought it would be cool to swim out to the platform and dive from the scaffolding. We agreed that one of us had to stay behind with a rope to help the others climb back up the seawall, since no ladder was mounted anywhere nearby. We drew blades of grass to determine the loser; the shortest stayed behind. Michael lost – or won – depending on how you look at it.
We weren’t aware that the city dredged the clay river bottom here, or that the current was treacherous. Unfortunately, we discovered this the hard way. We were all strong swimmers for 12 year-old boys, as we participated on the local Boy Scout swimming team. Having regularly dove into the river from various heights on the island side, the eight-foot high seawall didn’t intimidate us. However, when the three of us jumped into the water together, the current immediately took hold of us and pulled us away from the floating scaffold. We swam with all our might, but didn’t make any progress in closing the distance. Our efforts matched the speed of the current and only kept us stationary at a point of no return, halfway between the shore and the raft.
Michael, already in panic mode, paced back and forth along the seawall with a twenty-foot long rope. It wasn’t long enough to reach us, but if we could swim to it, then Michael could help us up. I tried to tell Patrick and James about my idea, but the waves lapping against my face made me gag while attempting to get the words out.
Finally, I relayed the message using pantomime: pointing to the rope in the water, and hollering, “ROPE” several times. They acknowledged and began making their way in that direction. Michael kept pace with them as the current moved them away from the bridge and along the seawall.
I saw nothing to grasp along the seawall and figured that three of us trying to reach the rope would actually make it harder for us to get out. I focused on the raft instead, burying my face in the water and swimming as if I were participating in one of our weekly races in the high school’s swimming pool.
The current relinquished its death grip on me once I moved farther from shore. This reprieve allowed me to swim toward the bridge and then approach the floating platform from behind. I saw a ladder mounted on an attached platform; it was used to unload and store supplies for the much larger stationary raft. I summoned the last of my strength and swam the final twenty feet toward salvation. Snatching the lowest rung, I held on tightly as the small raft bobbed up and down in the water, behaving like a bronco bull trying to throw me off. It was now or never.
I managed to pull myself up and fell onto the bobbing platform. My muscles spasmed, my lungs were on fire, and my ribs screamed in pain as they all expanded to accommodate every deep, gulping breath. Feeling dizzy, I knew I was hyperventilating from the whole experience. Trying to control my breathing, I exhaled into my clasped fists, using it like a paper bag. My two friends still struggled in the water. They held on to Michael’s dangling rope like landed fish hanging at the end of a storage line. Energy expended, neither had enough strength to pull himself up the eight-foot high seawall. Confident that they were safe for the moment, I relaxed momentarily. However, the constant bobbing brought on a case of motion sickness. I bent over the side and hurled my earlier breakfast into the water, watching the regurgitated glob of cereal, pancakes, and bile move downriver away from me. I prayed that my friends didn’t see me as it would definitely hurt my image.
Suddenly, I spotted a police car driving over the top of the slope above Michael, heading directly toward him. Michael waved frantically to get the officer’s attention, but they were already well aware of us. Looking up for the first time, I noticed groups of people gathered on the bridge above, all watching us, many exhibiting looks of sheer terror on their faces. The ladies bit their fists and the men held their partners tightly in their arms. Somebody up there had called the police.
To make matters worse, a small Coast Guard vessel manned with four officers arrived on the scene. The captain fought the current and held the boat stationary while two Coasties pulled Patrick and James into the craft. A medic checked them over while the cruiser motored toward me to pluck me from the bobbing platform. Spectators on the bridge clapped and cheered – a near disaster avoided. They continued watching the vessel as it moved slowly across the river toward the island.
The Coasties were extremely kind. They covered us with wool blankets and appeared genuinely concerned about our well-being. The three of us were excited and agreed that this was turning out to be one great adventure so far.
After we tied off at the Coast Guard Station, we saw Michael standing near the dock with two police officers, our clothes and shoes sitting in a pile at his feet. Michael was crying. Thin rivulets of tears created trails running down his dust-encrusted face; they dripped onto his shoes from the edge of his chin. The look on his face gave us pause. Michael was not a weak person and seldom cried. Maybe the police officers told him that he would go to jail for his part in
what they now called a prank.
We began to worry while drying off and redressing in our crumpled clothes. Why were the police officers still hanging around? We didn’t do anything wrong! We were just on an adventure, challenging ourselves – and each other – to try something new.
Once we were dressed, the police officers escorted the four of us to an office containing a long table and a dozen chairs. After taking their seats, the officers eyeballed each of us, shaking their heads in disgust. None of us dared move; fear kept us frozen to the spot. This adventure was no longer fun.
The officers greatly intimidated us. They threatened us with a stint in a juvenile detention facility and hundreds of dollars in fines for doing something so stupid. Petrified, we shivered uncontrollably. Needless to say, none of us wanted to be taken away from our homes, and we had no money to pay the fines. We started crying, promising that we would never do anything like that again, but they weren’t listening to us and just tuned us out.
When they told us that our parents were telephoned, informed about our stupid stunt, and were on their way to pick us up, we freaked out! Fighting the river currents wasn’t that big of a big deal to us, and in our naiveté, none of us were truly scared during the ordeal; it was more of an adrenaline rush... a real adventure. The reality of drowning never entered our minds. However, real fear surfaced when the four of us thought about what our parents would do to us when we got home. The anticipation of the unknown had its way with me, and the first of many future panic attacks began. It’s unfortunate that they had to start at such a young age.
Our parents soon filed in, first smothering us with hugs and kisses for not dying, then subjecting themselves to a severe tongue-lashing from the head police officer. They remained humbled and were not defensive. Instead, they exhibited respect and patience while waiting until they could take us home. The officers released us to the custody of our parents and did not press charges. Four separate cars exited the Coast Guard Station parking lot and merged into the bridge traffic returning to the city.
When Can I Stop Running? Page 10