In retrospect, I realize that my troubles started on the first day of basic training, at the moment I signed for my new M16 without realizing how my faith and my new best friend contradicted each other. While this conflict continued to simmer all the way to one fateful day on the beach, it was compounded by my mates, whose adjustment to military life was slower than mine. They accused me of arrogance, but I dismissed it as a passing manifestation of stress and physical pain because arrogance was a character trait no one had ever accused me of before, certainly not back in Utah or on the Mission, where all my friends had been fellow members of the Melchizedek Priesthood, Saints, destined to eternal afterlife of ruling our own worlds as gods.
Crisis came on a day that started as an exciting stepping stone in my development as a US Marine—the first full-fledged practice attack on a fortified target. I was selected to lead one of the two forces. Prior to our nighttime departure, back in camp, I rehearsed with my troops fake attacks on our bunkhouse. They made snide remarks about loss of precious sleep time, but went along in true Marine spirit.
It started at midnight with 25 miles of a fast-paced hike through sand dunes and chest-high water in full gear, guns held above heads. We assembled for a two-pronged beachhead attack as bullets flew over our heads toward the early sun, which peeked over the ocean behind us. A group of visiting Marine officers, who flew in from their respective units for the occasion, prepared to observe us and grade our performance.
The target was very realistic, an out-of-use bunker with a maze of tunnels, perched above a small bay near Fripp Island that had once been identified as a potential Nazi landing site. It had since served as a perpetual fake enemy base for training drills.
I led my force from the southeast, while another force came in from the northeast. To prevent cross fire, we were to shoot only with the rising sun at our backs, an easy-enough rule to follow in theory, but much more difficult in the reality of an adrenaline-filled attack.
The battle got underway, me in the lead, shouting orders and pointing here and there. I found myself inside the bunker, running down the open-top tunnels, shooting short bursts of bullets ahead to drive away imaginary defenders. The noise and gun smoke were overwhelming, and sand flew off the walls, clinging to my goggles, still wet from the seaside approach. The visiting officers shadowed us overhead, running along the tunnels. They were in full gear, including vests and helmets, not an unreasonable precaution considering the proximity to live rounds.
I was going fast, having memorized the layout beforehand, heading to the rear of the compound where a flag had been posted in the radio room. It was us or the other force, and the winners would get to ride buses back to the base and enjoy extra hours of sleep while the losers hiked all the way back, loaded with their gear. I was determined to win it for my team.
But when I turned a corner, a very realistic mannequin popped up in front of me, clothed in military fatigues and checkered headdress, and I froze. I wanted to shoot it, I really did, but my trigger finger refused to budge. The soldier behind me, not expecting this sudden halt, bumped into me, and we both fell. As I hit the ground, my weapon accidentally discharged. The bullet singed my cheek and lodged in the dirt wall next to us, kicking off a spray of sand.
One of the instructors overhead blew a whistle and yelled, “Medic!”
My second-in-command took over leading the troops, and I was dragged back through the bunker tunnels to the staging area on the beach, where a field surgeon smeared iodine on my face and used me as a teaching prop for the medical trainees. They removed my uniform, and that’s when someone said, “What’s with the sissy underwear?”
Chapter 9
Sissy underwear? Ben put aside Zachariah’s iTouch and pulled the Canon out of the camera bag. He browsed through the photos he had taken earlier until he reached the body on the stretcher.
There were three close-up photos of the dead man’s undershirt, focusing on the odd markings over his nipples and navel. The khaki color could definitely pass for military-issued underwear, but the markings were not of a military unit.
Ben used his own iPhone to find out more. Google search results for Mormon underwear solved part of the mystery. It appeared that members of the LDS church—“Saints,” as they called themselves—were required to wear a particular type of blessed undergarments. The symbols were identical to what he had seen on Zachariah’s undershirt at the Camp David Scenic Overlook. Their particular designs had originated from symbols of the Freemasons, an earlier affiliation of the Mormon prophet, Joseph Smith.
One of the Google results led to a video clip of an interview with the CEO of Marriott Hotels, who told the interviewer how his sacred undergarments had protected him from burns in a boating accident. Ben expected the interviewer to ask Mr. Marriott whether he was aware that any item of clothing worn flush against the skin would delay contact between fire and the skin, which was the reason toddlers’ pajamas are skintight. But the interviewer seemed too stunned by hearing one of America’s most prominent businessmen express belief in the magical powers of his underwear.
One piece of the puzzle, though, remained missing. The Google articles described the undergarments as white, which was the dominant color at all the Mormon temples, because in the eternal afterlife the gods and angels wore white too. But Zachariah’s undergarments were military khaki. Was there a special dispensation for Mormons in uniform? Ben returned to the journal, hoping to find the answer there.
Chapter 10
Z.H. Journal Entry # 3:
The paralysis that had prevented me from shooting the mannequin was at first shocking. Somehow the intense training of boot camp had failed to prepare me for the act of actually aiming, pulling the trigger, and shooting to kill a person. In every other respect, I was more physically and mentally resilient and obedient than any other guy in my outfit. But killing stood against everything I had ever been taught. The realistic-looking mannequin forced me to face this barrier and almost killed me by setting the stage for the exposure of my sacred undergarments.
“What’s with the sissy underwear?”
I still cringe at the memory of that question. Up until that day, I had not worn the sacred undergarments in boot camp, relying on the special dispensation for physical exercise, severe sweating, and soiling involved in basic training. As a result, my bunk mates had not seen the undergarments. I had actually prepared a little speech for the day when we would first dress up in our parade uniform, which would be the first time I would wear the undergarments. But the previous night, about to depart for the drill and the first use of live ammunition in a mock attack, I hastily put them on as an extra measure of security.
My mother had ordered this set for me after hearing that the church was allowing a color variation—khaki-green instead of white—for military service. It was identical to the military-issued underwear everyone else was wearing, other than the sacred symbols, which no one noticed as we got ready in the dark.
Considering how the accidental discharge could have killed me, wearing the sacred garments had been the right decision. But the exposure turned into a circus that exceeded even my high threshold.
When the drill concluded with the opposite force winning, everyone congregated at the launch area, where a hot breakfast awaited the wet and exhausted soldiers. The officers went to a command tent set up higher on the dunes.
When my buddies came over to check on me, I was lying exposed in the triage area with bandages over my pretend wounds and an IV line stuck in my arm. They were disappointed over losing the battle and the prospect of hiking back to base while the other team got extra sleep time. Word of my trigger-freeze had already spread, and now the ‘sissy underwear’ became a major attraction.
I tried to explain, but my prepared speech turned into gibberish, and they started joking about bullets ricocheting off my holy underwear and multiple wives waiting to serve me in Utah. Someone dragged
several terrorist mannequins out of the bunker, lined them up on the ground next to me, stripped them, and used a marker to draw breasts and pubic hair, followed by a made-up version of a Mormon marriage ceremony.
I was too numb to defend myself, barely managing to grin stupidly as if all this was very funny, while inside I was dying.
One of the guys pretended to hear God’s voice, telling him to dig around for a gold-plated porn video, which a sex-obsessed angel named Moron had buried on the beach. Everybody started digging around, laughing hysterically, and I rolled on my side, reached for my M16, and opened my mouth to wrap it around the end of the barrel and take the bullet I had failed to shoot at the mannequin.
Suddenly someone yelled, “Attention!”
The word had the effect of a bucket of cold water, not only on me, suddenly realizing what I was about to do, but also for the others, who lined up and stood in attention.
An officer was marching toward us from the command tent. He wasn’t especially large or muscled, but despite his medium height and rather skinny build, the way he carried himself was nothing short of powerful. His face was shaded by the visor of his cap, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, and his shoulders bore a captain’s insignia.
Everyone saluted. I managed to get up and raise my hand to my forehead.
He returned the salute. “What’s going on here?”
No one answered.
A wave broke nearby, emphasizing the silence that replaced the yelling and hooting.
He reached me and removed his sunglasses. His eyes were dark and penetrating. He gestured at the IV line and the bag that had fallen to the ground next to me. “Do you want air bubbles running up your bloodstream?”
I picked it up and yelled, “Sir! No, sir!”
“That’s right.”
My eyes were drawn to his chest, where a small pin glistened. I’ve never seen a real one before, but I knew what it was: Medal of Honor!
He looked around, saw the painted mannequins lined up on the ground by the stretcher. “What’s this?”
One of the guys said, “Mormon wives, sir!”
There was a round of laughter, quickly dying.
Another wave crashed.
The captain measured me up and down, taking in the markings on my undershirt and the bottom piece that looked like long johns that were cut short below the knees. I expected him to laugh or turn around and leave us to the drill sergeant’s wrath. But instead this officer, who was as remote and as important as any God, began to unbutton his field uniform shirt.
One button after another came loose, until the bottom one was open, and he grasped the lapels and pulled his shirt open, all the way, its front coming out from his pants’ waistline.
Under the captain’s shirt, lit by the rays of the morning sun, was a piece of cloth resembling a large bib, cut square just above his pants. It was worn over his khaki undershirt, made of the same material but bearing horizontal stripes along the bottom front. He pulled it free, and we saw strings, or threads, dangling from each corner.
“This is a tzitzit,” the captain said loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s a small Jewish prayer shawl, worn under the shirt. You can look it up in the Bible, both in Deuteronomy and in Numbers. Any questions?”
There were none.
“We are Marines!” He held up the corners of his tzitzit while walking up and down the line. “We don’t care about your skin color or your faith. We only care about serving honorably in the defense of the United States of America and the principles for which it stands! Understood?”
Everyone yelled, “Sir! Yes, sir!”
The captain buttoned up his shirt, tucked it in, and walked away, unaware that he had saved my life.
From that day on, I wore the sacred undergarments all the time, and no one ever uttered another Mormon joke in my presence.
Chapter 11
Keera was done early. A CNN debate between the presidential candidates had kept many of the Sunday night regulars at home, and the club manager decided to shut down at ten thirty p.m. rather than continue to pay for heating and for idle staff that consumed drinks on the house. The last few customers were cordially asked to leave, and the music stopped.
Stepping out, Keera shuddered at the sudden cold. Her coat ended at the knees, which was fine for a car ride but not for standing outside in the cold night. But Ben didn’t know of the early closing. For a moment, she hesitated. Should she return inside and call Ben? He was probably working, and Starbucks was around the corner, a three-minute walk, maybe less if she hurried.
With practiced caution, Keera glanced up and down the pavement to make sure no one was loitering. It would not be the first time that an enamored drunkard misinterpreted her suggestive dancing as a personal, desirous invitation or otherwise felt entitled to a more tangible reward for his paltry tipping. That was the reason Ben insisted on picking her up every night, but she saw no one tonight and liked the prospect of surprising him at Starbucks.
She crossed the two-lane street and headed to the next corner, her ears attuned to any sounds of danger. It was quiet.
Engine noise broke the silence.
Keera glanced over her shoulder and saw a single headlight, stationary, past the club and all the way at the other end of the street.
The Wisteria’s Secret neon sign turned off, and the street fell into darkness, except for the headlight.
The engine revved up, but the headlight still didn’t move.
Keera stopped walking. She could run back to the club, which was halfway between her and the motorcycle, but it could easily take off and get there before her. As if confirming her fear, the biker revved even higher, the engine practically screaming.
It occurred to her that it might be Ben, making a foolish joke to get back at her for urging him to give up his motorcycle for a car. Instead of working at his usual Starbucks hangout, he must have driven her Mustang back home and gotten his motorcycle.
“Ben? Is that you?” She headed back in his direction, her suspicion confirmed by the light color of the motorcycle, which in the dark seemed yellow.
He stopped revving the engine, which declined to a steady clatter.
Keera stepped off the curb. “This is really stupid, you know?”
The headlight started moving toward her while she was crossing the street. It advanced slowly, weaving from one side of the street to the other, playfully snaking its way toward her.
Keera stopped. The engine sounded different from Ben’s BMW, which was quieter and smoother.
And as the bike accelerated toward her, it became apparent that it was smaller as well.
“Shit!” Tearing off her high-heeled shoes, Keera ran away, making a beeline to the sidewalk.
In seconds, the motorcycle was right behind her. Not bothering to turn, she tossed her shoes backward in the general direction of her pursuer.
Chapter 12
Z.H. Journal Entry # 4:
With Ronald Reagan handing the White House keys to George H.W. Bush, the Soviet Union began to dismantle, and the Cold War, which had dominated our training and constant readiness, was over. Almost overnight, the world was at peace and my service seemed destined to pass in relative tranquility.
During the three months of communications training at Fort Mead near Baltimore, I attended services at a Silver Spring Ward. The local bishop, Maynard Higdon, a lawyer in the US Attorney General’s Office, took me under his wing. He was knowledgeable in our scriptures and history, and we had long discussions about Prophet Joseph Smith’s accomplishments in raising a military force to defend our Mormon brothers and sisters in the early days of the True Church. The Nauvoo Militia, for example, at one time had numbered 4,500 soldiers while the US Army barely reached 8,000. Bishop Higdon helped me understand that it was my religious duty to excel as a Marine and be prepared to kill the enem
y, whoever he was. Also during that time, Bishop Higdon allowed me to date his daughter, Palmyra, who was 17 and gorgeous.
We married on a humid summer day in a solemn ceremony at the Washington DC Mormon Temple. A day later, Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Soon President Bush declared an ultimatum, and we shipped to the Middle East aboard the aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. For a Marine, getting into real action was the goal, and I was no exception, especially as I was eager to prove myself capable of shooting the enemy.
Jump forward eight months, and I was an old hand at combat, crusty and confident as any of my mates. Victory was sweet, but I missed Palmyra, who was heavily pregnant with our first child. During my rare calls from Kuwait on a field telephone, I could hear the underlying pain in her voice despite her upbeat tone. It was comforting to know that she was surrounded by her large family while I was on the other side of the world, serving our nation. In her letters she described how everyone was praying for my safe return.
The thought that I might die in battle had occurred to me, but as the Iraqi army was mostly back behind the border, shamed and defeated, we were engaged in relatively safe cleanup operations in Kuwait. The liberated country was practically in ruins, and armed gangs roamed the broken highways and bombed-out cities.
On a hot day on February 28, 1991, everyone gathered around the TV set outside the command tent to watch President Bush declare a cease-fire and congratulate us—the armed forces of the United States and 33 other nations—on our success in liberating Kuwait.
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