My parents didn’t say a single word on the drive home. Dad’s face was red and stern, his mind trying to sort through these recent events. He glanced at me a few times in the rear-view mirror, but I knew better than to say anything. When we arrived home, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I felt safe from the reach of my parents while still in the car with the doors locked. When Dad saw that I wasn’t getting out, he returned, opened the door and looked in with an angry look on his face, then growled, “Into the house, Mr. Olympic Swimmer.” He didn’t smile or mean it as a joke. I hesitated, still unsure if I should or shouldn’t move. Dad lost his patience and shouted, “NOW!” His voice alarmed me enough to launch me out of the car. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, taking the porch steps two at a time, and then dashing through the open front door in a blur. I continued straight to my bedroom, slammed my door, and propped my desk chair under the doorknob to keep them out. When my father banged on the door and yelled my name repeatedly, my lack of response didn’t fool him into thinking that I wasn’t there. After a couple more hard knocks with his fist and wild jostling of the handle, the door suddenly burst open. Dad stepped into my room, swinging his brown leather belt from his right hand.
Yeah, I was punished, big time. My parents forbade me to go to Belle Isle for the rest of the summer, doling out additional chores and confining me to my room for the next two weeks. Of course, I didn’t have a computer, video games, or a cell phone to pass the time – those inventions were still decades away – leaving me with only an AM radio and my comic books for company. I didn’t see my buddies, Michael, Patrick or James until the first day of school at the beginning of the following month. It seemed like the parents collaborated because all of our punishments were similar.
Oh, and I should add that when I left for Vietnam, I still had the welts running across my ass from where dad’s leather belt roasted my flesh only six years earlier. The whole misadventure of diving under the bridge, turned out to be a foolish and painful experience.
But... I have to confess... what a rush it was!
FOURTEEN – LISTENING POST (0400 HOURS)
The 04:00 litany of sit-reps concluded moments ago; all units responded with single breaks in the static, thus assuring battalion CP that everyone was awake and all was secure.
Polack and LG still struggled with the mosquitoes that plagued them since their arrival the previous evening. Both soldiers remained cocooned in their poncho liners with only their eyes peeking through a slight gap in the material. They blocked out the incessant buzzing around their ears, passing it off as something beyond their control. Like tinnitus, the irritable sounds become accepted as part of the normal hearing process. Periodically, one of them would either spit or blow air through a nostril to dislodge an errant insect that made it through their defenses.
It was exceptionally silent; the only sound was the breeze blowing through the overhead canopy. The relaxing noise made it easy to imagine sitting on a beach, listening to the palm fronds swaying in the breeze and hearing the waves gently roll onto the sand from the dark sea.
Any thoughts of paradise were interrupted as drops of rain began falling through the treetops above them. A sudden memory from training brought them out of their stupor. ‘If you take care of your rifle, it will take care of you!’ As if their Drill Sergeant was standing right in front of them, both men raced to remove the small, clear cellophane wrappings from their C-Ration cigarettes, slipped them over their rifle barrel suppressors and secured them with rubber bands. The jungle humidity wrecked havoc on M-16’s, so soldiers religiously cleaned and oiled them daily to keep them working properly. Even a single particle of rust or dirt in the right place could cause a misfire or jam.
The rain fell lightly at first, then grew in intensity as the minutes passed. It didn’t take long for their poncho liners to absorb the moisture and transform into a much heavier wet blanket that leaked through, soaking them to the bone. Both pulled their rifles into the cocoons and hunkered down, careful not to dispel any of the warmth that the soaking wet liners provided.
After fifteen minutes, their shallow depression in the ground became almost intolerable. Water raced along the ground in several newly formed streams; the thin ribbons of mud flowed from the rim like miniature waterfalls. Without any outlet, the accumulated water quickly reached a depth of several inches. Ripples were beginning to roll over their thighs and crash into their bodies like those in a bathtub.
“Motherfuckin’ rain!” Polack remarked, rising to his knees and leaning back against the trees to keep his ass out of the water. LG followed his lead a few seconds later. Neither was concerned about the grenades lying in the puddle of water. They were, however, anxious about the Claymore firing devices getting wet, because they required an electrical charge to detonate the mines, and neither knew if water hindered their operation. As a precaution, LG moved them out of the water to some higher ground.
Suddenly, the jungle brightened as lightning flashed overhead, and a loud clap of thunder startled the two men. The rain fell harder, every drop causing geysers to splash up several inches in the growing pool. Thunder and lightning continued, without a break, which allowed them to see their surroundings for the first time that night. They didn’t get a steady or clear picture. Instead, the light pulsated like a giant strobe, giving the impression that the surrounding trees and shrubbery were dancing in the shadows.
“This shit ain’t right, brother! That lightning is freaking me out.” LG announced, his voice quivering.
“I don’t ever remember being in a storm like this before. My mother always told me to stay away from trees when there was lightning during a storm like this.”
LG chuckled, “Yeah, mine too. If they only knew!”
Polack caught a whiff of something strange. “Hey, you smell that?” he asked.
“Yeah, smells like an electrical fire.”
“Oh shit!” Polack exclaimed. “Get down!” He dove for the ground, pulling LG with him. Both belly-flopped into the small lake they were already sitting in.
“What the fuck?” LG raised his head, coughing and spitting mouthfuls of muddy water.
Polack put a hand on LG’s head and forced it back down. “The Claymores, LG!”
As if on cue, two of the three mines to their front exploded, the sound much louder than the overhead thunder. Hundreds of steel balls blew outward into the foliage demolishing everything in their path for thirty feet. The eruption and back-blast created a small crater, its force sending the contents high into the air, then mixing with the raindrops as the debris fell back to earth and over the two prone soldiers. The telltale smell of cordite and raw earth began to mask the sharp electrical stench.
Suddenly, several more rapid explosions sounded from behind them at the firebase, all in close proximity of the LP.
“Shit must be contagious!” LG muttered, listening to the explosions around them. When they ceased, he rose from the water.
“Thanks, brother man! I didn’t realize that was gonna happen!” He wiped the mud from his face and looked solemnly at Polack.
“I’ve seen it before...” Polack explained. “We had Claymores, detonation cord, and blasting caps explode during a storm right after I arrived. Shit, those little blasting caps will blow your fingers right off if they’re triggered while you’re holding them in your hand. In fact, I remember hearing something about that during our training.”
LG shook his head, “I musta been sleeping that day!”
The lightning flashed and thunder clapped, but the storm seemed downgraded a couple of notches from ten minutes before.
“Oh, wow, man! Is the hair on your arms standing straight up?” LG asked, holding his arm up in front of his face.
Polack stroked his arm and confirmed the same.
“The static electricity from the storm is still in the air. We were lucky!”
“Yes, indeed!” LG declared.
Through all of this, LG still had the radio handset glued to hi
s ear. The static electricity also affected the radio, as conversations were breaking up and the squelch seemed exceptionally loud.
“Anybody reporting anything?”
LG listened for a moment, then replied.
“Yeah, seems like Rock’s group, LP Two, and one of the firebase bunkers had mines explode. Nobody got hurt, just scared the shit out of ‘em all! Just like us!”
“Man, this is turning out to be one of my worst nights ever!” Polack watched LG for a reaction.
“I’m hip to that,” he agreed. “Only another hour of this shit and we can di-di back to civilization.”
“Yeah, you got that right!”
Polack sat down Indian-style on the rim of the water-filled depression. The storm had passed, but a steady light rain continued. Just one more hour to go... Content to see the light at the end of the tunnel, nothing else could dampen his spirits now. Polack hunched over and rested his arms on his knees to ease the strain on his back. The two men were exhausted mentally and physically. They were cold, wet, and hungry. Again Polack’s thoughts began to ramble. As he relaxed a bit, he allowed them to take over, offering a mini-escape from his grim reality. A smile crossed his face as he thought back to another defining moment – an incident on Belle Isle that occurred only a couple of years earlier.
FIFTEEN – BELLE ISLE WOODS: INITIATION
When I was growing up, the woods on Belle Isle were always dark and mysterious. Sometimes, while driving through the shadowy forest, deer and other forms of wildlife made their presence known to those people who dared venture into their domain during daylight hours. The trees were a mixture of birch, elm, maple and spruce; some of them reached heights of 40 to 50 feet. Wild vines surrounded the tall trees and were tethered to their trunks; some wrapped around like a barbershop pole, reaching up from the ground to form a dense ceiling below the treetops. The brush was so thick it was near impossible to enter beyond twenty feet of the road. The canopy, lush and vibrant during the late spring, consequently blocked out both sunlight and moonlight from penetrating to ground level.
Felled timber, a result of old age, disease, or a windstorm, lay in a hodgepodge throughout, as if a giant spilled a container of Pick-up Sticks from the heavens. Carpenter ants and termites worked furiously, doing their part to eliminate these eyesores. Those ancient trees that remained standing would bend and sway in the breeze. The sound of rustling leaves carried through the moist air, along with the intermittent sounds of wood snapping, crackling and popping. At night, one might imagine the sound as coming from a group of men on foot moving wordlessly through the vegetation.
During the early spring months and after summer thunderstorms, much of the terrain remained wet and molding. Pools of stagnant water were everywhere; the cesspools served as havens and breeding grounds for mosquitoes and other insects. The thick humid air, carried the sharp scent of decay, rotting vegetation, and sewer-like smells. Most people weren’t aware of the rancid odor because they didn’t venture into the woods on foot during the day. Instead, visitors remained in their vehicles, only driving past the woods while on their way to the various attractions on the island.
Mosquitoes swarmed the woods and bit all summer long, day and night. Spiders thrived here, easily weaving their sticky webs between the tree limbs and the bushes down below. An occasional snake might be spotted sunning itself on the steaming black asphalt roads.
The island took on an entirely different aura at night, as teens ruled the night after families returned home. They’d gather in familiar areas of the island where they smoked, drank booze, necked in cars, or sat on the river shoreline to fish or watch the aquatic sights from park benches along the road.
On some nights, bonfires on the north side of the island lit the sky, signaling the location of a large party in the making, and all were welcome.
Smaller groups, comprised of students all from the same school, frequently kept to themselves. School rivalries were strong in certain neighborhoods, and on occasion, a brawl would erupt after one competing school group taunted the other. A huge rivalry existed between kids from the Catholic and public schools. Quite often, public school students underestimated the toughness of the private school kids, and many an ego was damaged in a rumble. Back then, they fought with chains, tire irons, two-by-fours, and knives. Guns were practically non-existent, and fighting during that time meant face-to-face, mano a mano. I even remember some of the Catholic school girls running around after a fight with handfuls of hair or blood on their knuckles as proof of their fighting prowess. It was also a time when “Greasers” and “Frats” reigned supreme in our teenage world; any derogatory remark between the groups was enough to spark a confrontation.
The island employed a small contingency of Detroit Police officers; most patrolled on horseback, but the understaffed force couldn’t keep an eye on everyone.
In those frenzied high school years, accepting a challenge to hike through the woods after dark was a rite of passage. Money was sometimes wagered, but more importantly, reputations were at stake, and none of us wanted to be considered a “sissy” for the rest of the school year.
There were only two small, single-lane roads that snaked through the woods from the north and northeast side of the island. They sometimes intersected, crossing over small bridges suspended over a lagoon and narrow canals, eventually spitting you out on the other side, about a mile away, as the crow flies. A person could easily get disoriented while trekking through the darkness and might find himself going in circles because of a wrong turn. With no flashlights to light the way inside the pitch-black forest, visibility was fifteen to twenty feet, at best.
One late September night, a group of seniors from my high school intimidated me – a sophomore at the time – into making the trek through the woods. My buddy Wayne was along that night and volunteered to accompany me. I could never figure him out; it seemed like nothing ever scared that guy. At least, that’s how it appeared on the surface. Wayne did not attend my school but knew most of the students from living in the same neighborhood. He was two years younger but towered over me by a good four inches. We were good friends and partners “in crime”, doing everything together. In fact, I later joined him on many occasions as kind of a third wheel when he and his future bride, Doris, went out on dates. We went to the movies, drive-in diners, bowling, or just hung out, and sometimes I drove while they made out in the back seat. Never heard any shit over it later from either of them. We’re still good friends today and laugh about it now and then.
The two of us stood at the mouth of the forest, shaking our hands and arms at our sides as if preparing for a major race in a large sporting event. Our peers supported us with slaps on the back and shouts of encouragement.
“It ain’t shit! See ya’ on the other side.” Wayne and I smiled at Big Bob in acknowledgment.
“You can do it, John!” shouted a female classmate of mine.
“Right on, Barb! Thanks!” I responded, pumping my fist in the air.
Barb’s confidence in me made my ego soar. She was a hippie chick with long, dark, straight hair that cascaded over her shoulders to the middle of her back. I sat behind her in a few classes and sometimes played with her hair and teased her a lot. She was bashful at times but was good-natured and took everything in stride.
Barb hung out with a clique of girls who were into rock and psychedelic music, and they spent their weekends at rock concerts. But what impressed me was that she shared my interest in creative writing. Her imagination, wit, and uncanny knack for details gave her a natural flair for the written word. Nothing got by her, and her mind was like a steel trap. Most of all, I liked that she laughed at all my goofy jokes – important stuff for a teen-age guy. I liked her; she was cute – but I never got the nerve to ask her out.
The upperclassmen also joined in with catcalls of their own. “Remember trolls and witches live under the bridges and they’re gonna fuck you up when they catch you!” Billy needled. The tall blond senior and basketball
star exhibited a shining white smile that reminded me of the then-popular jingle in Pepsodent toothpaste commercials. Chills suddenly ran down my back causing me to shudder involuntarily. Tales of murderers, thieves, bums, and the ghost of The Great Houdini lurking in the eerie shadows compelled us to move cautiously through the dark abyss. Neither of us could see the white lines at the edge of the asphalt road, so kicking up stones or hearing the sound of crunching gravel was our only cue to move back on the road. Once we were out of the group’s sight, we both armed ourselves with pieces of tree limbs about the size of a baseball bat, giving us a sense of some security.
Several youths often hid in the forest; their sole purpose was to spook the walkers. We weren’t aware of this fact until weeks later. They were strangers to most and got their rocks off watching trekkers get freaked out. Rumors circulated about students actually passing out when accosted by this group during walk-throughs. As we passed by, they tossed stones at us, rustled through the vegetation, and moaned loudly like lost ghouls. Some were even stealthy enough to touch us, giving us a start, but we passed it off as just another event of nature and continued forward at a steady gait. Neither of us dared to run through this ‘dark spook house’ in fear of crashing straight into a tree or falling into one of the many canals. Our worst fear was that we might venture off the road into the brush, and become disorientated and unable to find our way back to the road.
We held on to one another’s shoulders, single-file, while making our way forward. Occasionally, I found Wayne pushing me from behind but following closely in my footsteps. I never thought to ask if he was using me as a shield or trying to make me move faster.
The bridges were unique structures in that they were only twenty or so feet across, with an ornamental concrete barrier on both sides. The approach was not gradual, instead rising abruptly at a 45-degree angle to a height of four feet or so before they sharply sloped back down. During the daylight hours, teens raced their cars through the woods intent on going airborne when reaching the bridges. Many of the cars bottomed out, leaving deep grooves and ruts in the asphalt where the transmission, engine oil pan, or frame hogged out pieces of the road. Others crashed their vehicles; telltale signs like damaged tree trunks or car pieces laying in the brush on the side of the road were all that remained as remembrances of somebody’s stupidity.
When Can I Stop Running? Page 11