Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine

by William Roskey

  Things were improving. We now had a serviceable truck, two more weapons, and a briefcase full of what could be interesting reading for our intelligence boys. We dumped the bodies in a roadside drainage ditch, turned the truck around, and resumed our trip south. Luck was with us. The stenciled markings on the bumpers indicated that the vehicle was assigned to an intelligence unit, and a narrow sign at the bottom of the windshield read in Korean, “URGENT—COURIER—DO NOT DELAY.” That, along with one of our stern-faced KATUSAs now in the major’s uniform, carried us through checkpoint after checkpoint. We got to within five miles of our lines before we had to do any more fighting, but from then on, it was pure hell. The kick-off to that last five miles was a raid I led against a Chinese supply depot, where we captured some much needed food and enough arms to give our little band considerable firepower—firepower far out of proportion to our numbers. We walked away from there festooned with Chinese potato-masher-type grenades, bandoleers, and magazine pouches. Each of us had a submachine gun and a pistol. In addition, I had three of the guys carry light machine guns and assigned a feeder to each of them. I assigned a mortar to the KATUSAs, and I grabbed a rucksack and stuck in about thirty sticks of TNT, some primers, and a few yards of fuse. We were a pretty potent force to tangle with after that.

  What went on after that as we fought that last five miles could (and does) fill a book. Duncan subsequently wrote, Behind Enemy Lines: O’Brien’s Raiders. It’s a good book and absolutely accurate. At first, I was put off by the title, but needlessly so, as it turned out. The book didn’t sell very well anyway. It created hardly a ripple the few short months it was on the stands. That’s too bad, not because I care about any recognition for myself, but for quite the opposite reason. What Duncan brought out so eloquently was the fact that none of us were heroes. Someone once said that a hero is nothing more than a man who has become so tired and hungry and scared that he no longer cares; he just gets so mad, becomes so outraged, that anything or anybody who gets in his way is in for big trouble. Duncan tried to tell that to the world, but throughout history, it’s always been a message that the world doesn’t want to hear.

  They gave me the Silver Star for leading nine other men out, and three of us were wounded. One subsequently died of his wounds. In all, we lost eight men, or, I should say I lost eight men. Some hero. They had started the paperwork for awarding me the Medal of Honor, but stopped when I told them that if it were awarded to me, I would refuse to accept it. No one had ever turned down a Medal of Honor, and no one knew what the protocol would be in such an event. On the other hand, they had to give me something; the commanding general told personnel that public relations wanted a hero to bolster morale at home. There wasn’t much good press coming out of Korea since the war had gone into a bone-wearying, grinding stalemate. The war was sapping more than national resources; it was sapping national spirit. Then too, there were the other men. Those eight guys had gone through more than most can even imagine, and I didn’t want to demean their achievement. I insisted that they all get Silver Stars too. Personnel said how about Bronze Stars, and a deal was struck. Months later, at a surprise ceremony, I was also awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. It was such a surprise, that before I could figure out whether or not I should accept it, the general had pinned it on me and had already moved on.

  Seven men were lost, eight if you count Stack, the guy who had died of wounds after we got back (and you’d better count him). I was also awarded two Purple Hearts for wounds I picked up when I was crawling that last mile, setting TNT charges. We literally blew a path through that last mile of mines and concertina wire and bunkers and pillboxes. Using fire and movement, we covered each other as we ran that bloody gauntlet to safety. Eight men lost. Sure, I could have done worse. But I could have done better too. You see, the cease-fire agreement was signed at Panmunjom on July 27, 1953, only a little over three weeks later. If I had just left well enough alone, instead of trying a grandstand play like that, those eight guys would have probably done a month as POWS, and all of them would still be alive today.

  Sure, the Air Force psychiatrist told me that there was no way I could have known that. And he’s right, of course. But that doesn’t seem to help too much. The story of that last five miles is a long one and has little to do with this book. It’s also a tragic and terrifying story, and I decided in 1953 that I would never talk about it or even think about it again. Then along comes a Secret Service agent, and I have to reopen that door and live through it again. Every last detail. And for what? As we raced toward the rising sun in the Lockheed Starfire, I realized that I still knew little more than I did four days before.

  6

  We refueled in Ohio, where we also grabbed a couple of American cheese sandwiches and a couple of cartons of milk out of a machine in the Ops building. The guys there were cordial, but when we finally landed at Andrews Air Force Base outside of Washington, I saw what it was really like to be treated like a VIP. I taxied off the runway behind a fast blue FOLLOW ME pickup, which led me to a remote corner of the installation. As I killed the powerful Pratt & Whitney J48-P-5 turbojet, I noticed that the aircraft on our immediate left was none other than Air Force One. In front of us were three immaculate passenger helicopters, each painted a deep rich blue-green, and emblazoned with the Great Seal of the United States. A bird colonel met me and Clarence on the ground. He looked like he was going to salute Clarence and click his heels.

  “Mr. Jones, it’s good to see you again. The President wants to see you and Captain O’Brien immediately. We have chopper number three standing by.”

  Clarence, apparently used to being treated with such deference, simply grinned and headed for the chopper. “Thanks, Colonel,” he said over his shoulder, “appreciate it.” I hefted by B-4 bag and followed him. “Appreciate it,” I yelled inanely to the colonel over the now increasing roar of the idling helicopter.

  We were airborne the instant, or actually an instant before, the door was slammed behind me by a crewman. The lurch almost threw me off my feet as I overbalanced with the B-4 bag. Clarence, after all the sound sack time on the cross-country flight in the Starfire, now looked disgustingly fresh, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed. He motioned me to one of the plush upholstered seats and took one himself. After I sat down, I looked around. This was one of the helicopters used for formal occasions to ferry heads of state, cabinet members, and the President himself hither and yon, and it looked it with its ankle-deep royal-blue rug, massive reclining chairs, and incredible soundproofing. I couldn’t believe it.

  We landed on the White House lawn, where we were met by two youthful and athletic Secret Service agents. “Chief,” the taller of the two said to Jones in an all-business fashion, “he wants to see you and the captain here immediately. The chopper’s to stand by. I’ll take care of it.” Clarence’s eyes twinkled.

  “Nobody stole the silverware while I was gone?”

  “No sir,” the junior agent replied, then reddened.

  Clarence snapped him a mock serious salute. “Then carry on, mister. As you were. Avast on the poopdeck and shiver me timbers. Fire one, and take her down to 500 feet. Rig for silent running and belay that!” The guy got even redder. “Aw, relax, Charlie. I’m just funnin’ with you.”

  “Yes sir. I understand.”

  We set out across the beautifully manicured grounds for the White House, and the two agents stayed with the chopper. “He’s O.K.” Clarence said by way of explanation. “We recruited him out of Annapolis not too long ago. Family is fourth generation navy. Has money too. With his brains and connections, he’d have been an Admiral in fifteen years, no sweat. God knows why he signed up with our lot. Glad he did though; he’s first rate.” Jones’s pace was brisk and assured, and before I knew it, we were inside, and our footfalls were echoing hollowly on the dark parquet floor. “Do you know I’m the only guy who’s ever called him Charlie? Even his family has always called him Charles …” Clarence shook his head wonderingly, “Charles.” At the
end of the quiet corridor, we turned into a handsomely appointed office tastefully done in Early American. Its three occupants smiled and nodded at us.

  “Go right in, Mr. Jones and Captain O’Brien. He’s waiting,” said an elegant and elderly woman, whom I later learned was the President’s personal secretary.

  “Thank you, Miss Hotchkiss,” Clarence replied without breaking stride. Things were happening so fast that I was having real trouble adapting. Another door opened; we took a few more steps, and suddenly, me, humble little Lightfoot O’Brien from the San Carlos Reservation, found himself in the august presence of the President of the United States. The Oval Office.

  Holding his hands open to warm them, Ike stood staring thoughtfully into the roaring fire in the huge and ornate fireplace. He rubbed his hands briskly, then turned to face us. He looked exactly like his photographs, but he was shorter than I’d expected. I’ve since come to the not very original and not very brilliant conclusion that we all seem to expect world leaders, movie stars, war heroes, great writers and artists, and similar luminaries to be larger than life. They’re not.

  Nevertheless, he was an imposing figure. He had what professional military people call “command presence,” and he had it in abundance. He was a man who had commanded millions in the greatest war in history, and he was now President of the United States of America. He smiled.

  “Clarence,” he said, while his eyes frankly appraised me, “have you got us the right man?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The President extended his hand. I dropped my B-4 bag and shook. His grip was firm.

  “Captain, I hope all your worldly possessions are in that bag. You won’t be getting a chance to go back for them. At least, I hope you won’t.”

  I managed a lopsided grin. “I travel light, sir.”

  “Good,” Ike said, turning to Clarence, “you ready for a little trip to the farm?”

  “Mr. President,” Clarence smiled, holding up his battered brown leather attaché case, “you know me. I travel even lighter.” That attaché case, the only luggage he’d carried out to Nevada with him, the only luggage I later learned, he ever carried anywhere with him, contained a razor, tooth brush, tooth paste, extra ammo for the .357 Magnum in his shoulder holster, a few sets of underwear, two shirts (white), three pairs of socks (black), an extra bag of Cherry blend for his pipe, and a bottle of aspirin. Travel light? I guess you could say that.

  “Good. Captain, you’re not finished traveling yet, but you will be soon. Then you’ll be getting a breathing spell. We’re going to Gettysburg.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He turned to Jones. “Mamie’s already there. She left this morning, and my valise went with her. I’ve just been waiting for you two. O.K., let’s go.” With that, he took his hat and overcoat from a walnut clothes tree and headed for the door.

  On the flight out, Ike chatted amicably about inconsequential things. A combination of his clearing his mind for a few days’ vacation and trying to put me at ease, I suspect. At ease. He needn’t have bothered. I was flat out exhausted and running on nothing more than nervous energy anyway. Everything was catching up with me—the grueling four-day interview with Clarence, with all the attendant dredging up of memories I’d spent years trying to free myself from, the transcontinental flight in the F-94, meeting and being whisked off to rural Pennsylvania by the President of the United States, the sheer mystery of it all. I was running on that nervous energy plus two American cheese sandwiches washed down with a small carton of milk. The fuel finally ran out somewhere over the Maryland countryside. One moment I was politely listening to the President tell me about the trout fishing in Adams County in the spring, and the next moment Jones was shaking me awake.

  “O.K., Ace, we’re here. You can wake up now.”

  “Huh?” I replied from my stupor.

  “End of the line, Lightfoot.” I managed a kind of fuzzy semiconsciousness. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do at the time. There were no longer any vibrations or engine noises. We were on the ground. My mouth tasted horrible and my eyeballs felt raw. I was long overdue for a shower, and my uniform was wrinkled in a thousand places. I needed a shave. As my eyes began to focus, I saw the President standing over me right behind Clarence. His expression was firm, but his eyes were twinkling. He’d just finished saying something about the conduct of junior officers who show disrespect for their superiors by falling asleep right in the middle of an exciting tale about the size of the fish that got away.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I—”

  “No excuses, Captain. The penalty is confinement to the guest cottage and the grounds for 24 hours.” We were exiting the chopper, and as we hit the ground, he indicated a small red brick cottage no more than fifty yards from the main house. “You’ll find it comfortable. If it’s good enough for Churchill, it should be good enough for you. You strike me as a much easier man to please,” Ike smiled. “I’ll send Cook over with a hot and hearty meal within the hour. While you’re waiting, you might want to wash up. Have you any civilian clothes in that bag?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good, wear them. From now on, I don’t want to see you in uniform. If anyone on the spread asks, and they shouldn’t because they’re used to being very discreet, you can tell them your name. Period.” I nodded and he continued. “The Secret Service detachment here at the farm has been notified of your presence. All the agents have been given copies of your photograph, so you can stroll around all you want without fear of being shot. Just don’t leave the farm, and although there’s a telephone in the cottage, I ask that you don’t use it to let anyone know where you are. There’s no need for that anyway, is there?” I shook my head. “Good. This is really big, O’Brien. The classification of this project is Top Secret Cosmic Eyes Only. In this particular instance, that means that there are only 36 people in the world who know about it. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” I nodded grimly, the set of my jaw, I hoped, a clear indication of how serious and trustworthy I was. Suddenly he laughed, the kindly old man once again. “O.K., son. Now take tonight and tomorrow off. Let’s talk tomorrow night. I’m warning you in advance to be well rested. You’ll need to do some heavy and clear thinking.”

  With that, he gave me a hearty clap on the back, which propelled my weary body toward the steps of the cottage. With a Herculean effort, I mustered up the last of my reserve strength and made it up the five steps to the small porch. My B-4 bag dropped from my nerveless fingers with a thud, and my hands automatically began a clumsy search of my pockets. “Key,” I mumbled absently to myself, “no key.”

  “Don’t need a key here, cousin,” Jones said from behind me. “Not even a jackrabbit gets onto the grounds without us knowing about it, what with our electronic sensors, roving patrols, and so forth. No need to lock anything here on the farm.” He came around in front of me, opened the door, and preceded me in. “All the comforts of home,” he said as he flicked on the lights. He was right. It wasn’t fancy, but it was cheerful, clean, and cozy. It was furnished in Pennsylvania Dutch style, even to the point of a few gaily colored hex signs on the walls. The stone fireplace was already set up with logs and kindling. All it needed was the touch of a match and I was in business. The late November weather in Pennsylvania was something my desert acclimated body wasn’t yet ready for.

  Walking into the small kitchen, Clarence opened a couple of cupboards and the refrigerator door, gesturing to me as he did so. “You’ve got utensils, plates, fresh milk, eggs, coffee, bread, and some canned goods if you feel like cooking or having a snack. If you don’t feel like cooking tomorrow morning, just mosey over to the Secret Service bunkhouse, visit a spell and we’ll have breakfast together. They made up the bed and put in fresh towels while we were on our way up here. Got any questions?” I shook my head. “Hit the sack right after you eat, Lightfoot. You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  I awoke at about three o’clock in the morning, but not in bed. I had falle
n asleep right where I had stretched out the night before. On the hearth before a lively hickory fire. Except for the busy little sounds of the flickering fire, all was silent. I was still in my uniform. The fire was so soothing. I looked into the mesmerizing flames, remembering all the fires that I had shared on the desert with Tom Pinole, Johnny Straight Blade, and Bill (Loco) Coyote when we were teenagers. Oftentimes, the revered Dark Cloud, a reclusive shaman of great repute, would join us. He was as imposing as the mighty Superstition Mountains, twice as old, and ten times more mysterious. He would tell us of the old days, the days of Victorio, of Mangas Coloradas, of Cochise, and of Geronimo. He would tell tales long into the night, tales of perfidy and treachery that would make us want to howl for justice, to fight for it without considering the cost, tales of courage that told of men of honor who faced overwhelming odds but fought and often died rather than betray a trust, tales of great and wise chiefs and shamans, of cold sparkling water from crystal lakes, of the animals of the desert, and of beautiful maidens. He spoke of the history of our people, of the coming together of the Bedonkohes, the Nednis, and the Chokonens, all uniting to fight as Chiricahuas. He was never seen on the reservation, and he shunned the company of adults. He was seen only at the campfires of young people. Then one day, he came no more. But, as I only realized much later in my life, it didn’t matter. He had completed his task; he had passed on to a new generation their heritage. That was the gift he gave our people, as shamans of old had. He had told us who we were and made us feel the pride of it. Few men can accomplish more.

  As I continued to stare into the fire, I thought I heard a coyote howl nearly a continent away. Then I drifted off to sleep again.

  7

  I awoke totally refreshed, every last cobweb banished from my mind. The fire had gone out, and it was a bit chilly. I got up and rolled up the blanket I always slept in—the blanket my mother had woven for me, the blanket that she had intended to give me as a graduation present when I graduated from Air Force flight school. It had been salvaged from the wreck, and I had slept in it every night since. Few, almost no, Apaches weave. That is a specialty of the Navajos, just as jewelry making is primarily done by the Zunis, and basket making by the Papagos. That made the blanket all the more precious to me. It was a one-of-a-kind, done slowly and painstakingly, by unaccustomed and loving hands, for me.