by H. L. Valdez
“What’s that?”
“It’s a mental wiring problem.”
“I don’t get it?”
“Self-esteem, self-confidence, self-concept. The three S’s.”
“That’s bullshit psycho-babble crap,” he answered, with a false smile, as the veins in his neck pulsated, while bumping into a gargantuan disgruntled Marine, glancing at him sideways in the busy passageway. On the hangar deck, young and strong disciplined Marine pathfinder teams equipped with 40-mm grenade launchers were jumping into the open cargo doors of mammoth helicopters preparing to parachute into the valley of death. Young Marines with the bodies of Olympic champions feared no evil, as youthful bravado was on their side. The dark side of combat was yet to reveal itself. The war had begun. Terror was waiting.
Night Jump
10 July 1964. Iriomote Island Japan. Silhouetted by a moon lit night, a flock of birds flew in nocturnal flight. Broken rain clouds exposed the nebulae and brilliance of thousands of dense blue-white stars. From the jump plane, the shores of the landing zone below were rough and barren. A feeling of severity pervaded, as though a battle between the land and sea had just been fought. Inside the aircraft, Primo adjusted his high performance parachute.
“What are we doing here?” Rita shouted to Justin competing with the engines’ loud vibrations and strong wind blasting in from the open door.
“Adventure stories for your grandkids,” he shouted, securing his old fashioned Thompson submachine gun, aka the Annihilator, with a double-feed box magazine with 30 rounds per box.
“One minute to the drop zone. Stand by,” the Jumpmaster announced as Velvet adjusted the altimeter on her wrist, while Primo wiped his night vision goggles. Rita fastened her gloves and checked the buckle on her parachute harness and the position of the ripcord. Butch was busy adjusting Spanky’s harness and soft leather helmet.
“When we jump, jump quickly and stay close together,” Justin shouted with the plane bouncing in the turbulence.
“Fifteen seconds,” blurted the voice, as the team huddled closer, moving lockstep toward the windy exit.
“Ten seconds...5...4...3...2...go!" Shouted the Jumpmaster.
“Here I come, bastards!” Justin hollered, plunging out the aircraft.
“Oooh Raaa!’ Primo shouted, leaping into the blackness.
“Ban The Bra!” Velvet screamed, diving head first into the abyss.
“Oh Shit! I hate this part!” Rita shrieked, soaring from the aircraft.
“I love this part!” Butch hollered, holding on to Spanky, casually falling out of the aircraft.
“Ooooooo!” Spanky howled repeatedly.
Falling from 20 thousand feet, averaging 120 mph the team was positioning themselves while descending at 32 feet per second per second. At terminal velocity, they assumed the frog position.
“Crack! Crack! Crack! The black canopies popped, bursting open, yanking each person violently upward into a half-somersault.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” Rita assured herself; her eyes closed tight, as she was hurled through the air -- then suddenly, silence.
“I like this part,” Rita said relieved, looking up at her open chute, floating through the air feeling tranquil and peaceful. Positioning her high-performance guerilla-type chute into a tight formation, the silence became almost deafening. Descending the final seven thousand feet, Primo adjusted his night vision goggles searching for the landing zone. Nearby, eagles with seven-foot wingspans were on an aerial reconnaissance mission flapping their wings in unlabored grace. With each wing beat, they traveled three feet, gracefully flying at forty miles per hour toward the team’s flanks. The black and white plumage of the eagles could not hide the strong talons and beaks of the hungry silent predators searching for food.
With the ability to see six miles clearly, the huge intruders elegantly glided into the team’s flanks, circling the team. A surprised Spanky barked furiously. The massive eagles, accustomed to eating monkeys, wild rabbits and lizards, focused on Spanky. Velvet stared speechless at the strong mature eagles circling as she drifted downward. Abruptly, one of the larger eagles snapped at Spanky, cutting the neck of the pure breed dog. Instinctively, Butch punched the bird’s head then countered with a ferocious kick to the body. With an evil screech, the dazed eagle spiraled five hundred feet in bewildered confusion before gaining control of its senses. Skillfully riding the air currents, Justin motioned the team to slow down, allowing everyone time to regain composure as Butch tried to slow the blood flowing from Spanky's neck. Justin peered through green-tinted night-vision goggles at the woods below. Rita checked the sensing device on her wrist. Adjusting his goggles, Primo methodically searched the area left-to-right, right-to-left, for the landing site in the dense blackness of the forest below. Moments seemed like hours, when at last, a relieved Justin motioned with his arm to a position below.
“I got a beacon fix,” Justin shouted, as they skillfully drifted to the landing zone.
“At last!” Rita moaned, trembling with relief.
"Stay clear of the trees,” Justin ordered. In her anticipation, Velvet miscalculated time, speed, and distance while kicking a treetop startling nesting families of vampire bats. Abruptly, a blizzard of startled fearsome bats flew screeching from the treetops, triggering a chain reaction among sleeping bat families hanging upside down in branches. With sonar accuracy, the bats dove for Spanky’s bleeding neck as hundreds of bats crowded the sky.
“Hold on Spanky!” Butch shouted, pulling a small samurai sword from its sheath, swiftly cutting and slicing the attacking bats with practiced exactness. Twisting and turning, Spanky snapped, bit, and barked desperately defending himself. Butch's arms flailed frantically fighting to keep the bats away from his bleeding face. With a parachute filled with bats he lost control splashing into a cold, deep swamp glutted with different species of breeding frogs. Startled and frightened, the amphibian creatures hurriedly scattered and hid in the thickets as overgrown bull frogs steadily rendered their basso mating croaks in response to the soprano peeps of their would-be female mates. Justin and Rita, making hard landings, punched the release buttons on their chutes and rushed to help Velvet, dangling helpless from a moss-laden tree. In close proximity, Primo skidded to a stop on the rain-soaked ferns and plants. Butch, floundering in the swamp, quickly released a blood soaked Spanky from his harness. Struggling to stay above water, Butch thrashed about trying to wiggle out of his chute in the deep swamp as desperate bats frantically escaped from the sinking chute while continuing to bite Spanky. Barking and biting the vicious bats, Spanky paddled to Butch biting down on his collar.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Primo shouted, lassoing Butch with a thin rope. Primo groaned straining to pull them to the water's edge. “You’re heavy!”
“I’m your brother. Now, pull harder.”
“Is everyone all right?” Justin shouted, somewhat bewildered, assessing the situation and trying to make sense of what happened.
“We’re okay over here,” Butch yelled, out of breath, kneeling at the edge of the murky pond.
“Doc, take care of everyone. I’m going to look around,” Justin told her intensely. Within minutes, Rita was stitching Spanky’s neck and tending to Butch’s cut face. Everyone was scratched and bruised. They all surveyed the primitive atmosphere, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Butch inhaled the fragrance of the night blooming jasmine as time eerily passed. Spanky suddenly began a long deep grumble-growl tensing his body, rigidly staring ahead.
“Why is he growling?” Velvet muttered.
“Someone is coming,” Butch answered as Velvet strained her eyes. Justin stood motionless while Primo stared through his night vision glasses squinting for clarity and identification.
“Relax, it's only me,” Marco snapped, walking toward the group under the curtain of night as the great horned owl, tyrant of the bird world, tightly gripped a wiggling bat, and soared silently past the group to its nest in a hollow tree.
�
�It’s Marco," Butch answered, staring in the dark distance.
"I'm conducting a security check," Marco said walking with confidence, adjusting the shoulder sling attached to his Stoner 5.56mm weapon weighing 35 pounds. Velvet shifted her weight, surveying the desolate appearance of the surrounding forest, feeling forgotten from the world entirely. Feeling uneasy, the group united in silence, staring at the twisting ribbon-like tree roots protruding from the ground. Smiling, Butch greeted Marco, stopping before him. Both men bowed in mutual respect, then walked toward the group. For a brief moment, the massive clouds revealed a brilliant moonlight. In that instant, Rita stared at Marco, engulfed in sexual fantasy, feasting on his sensuality. He was the all purpose man on the lean hard edge of readiness. Marco was visually exciting; he had an imposing and exotic presence.
Marco was a walking paradox. Born in Manhattan, he had a binocular vision towards life and carried with him an awesome array of survival skills and extraordinary combat capabilities. With an army of female lovers behind him, he had a relentless unpredictable spirit. A master chameleon and consummate field operative, Marco was intelligent, innovative, and accustomed to high risk. Rita was magnetized by his bestiality; for her, Marco represented masculinity in its fullest form. At the same moment, Marco stared at Rita -- the contact high was immense. He thought she represented male fantasies of female passion. She was exotic, confident, and possessed an unusual physical toughness. Marco’s primordial desire wanted her, but for now, he would have to put a lid on his id. He could easily become emotionally hooked on her. His feelings scorched into his yearnings for her. His libido was thinking of itself. His little head was winning. Rita was the emotional and physical M&M he needed to nourish his soul. Justin watched Marco. As an officer, and a leader, he knew Marco had to show that he could be firm as well as patient, hard as well as reasonable, and do so with an austere countenance and a commitment to preserving individual freedom of choice. Suddenly, a sharp tapping from a woodpecker's beak on a tree interrupted the mood. Marco glanced toward the sound, and then turned back to the group.
"We’re a long way from home. Each person has a specific role. There are no loners in this operation,” Marco instructed. “We must have a concentration of spirit and will. As you know, the essence of fighting is the act of moving. To survive, we need to be so tight that everything we do is automatic. It has to be second nature. We work as a team,” Marco said stoically. With his agility and strength he could be pure mania, yet, a person never had a sense of isolation, Marco instilled unity. He was different. He didn’t fit in. He knew it. He accepted it.
“Do yourself a favor. Volunteer to help yourself. Stay in a condition of readiness. The more prepared you are to respond to a dispute, the better off you'll be,” Marco informed the group, looking at each of them in the eyes.
“In conflict, everyone reacts differently. Those who control life also control death,” Marco cautioned, as fast moving dark rain clouds blocked the moonlight. While listening to Marco, Butch knew he had made formidable enemies weep with his ferocious hand-to-hand fighting and kickboxing ability. Butch understood the importance of developing maximum body strength, and reasoned that exercise is a process by which a strong will and resistance to pain is developed.
“If no one has any questions, let’s start walking,” Marco stated, pointing his finger toward the forest as the moonlight reappeared, reflecting off the pond. A distant reverberation sounded as Marco led the group into a forgotten protected path that served as a gateway through which ancient Chinese cultures entered Okinawa for centuries. Inhaling the fragrance of the night blooming jasmine, Marco felt content walking the twisting path of the forest. Motioning the team to slow down, he cautiously led the group into what appeared to be impenetrable brush. Within a few yards, a small corner of nature gave way to an open section of forest cloaking a sacred ground, revealing the abandoned ruins of a Buddhist temple. On the roof of the huge box-like structure, the face of the all-seeing Buddha with its inlaid eye stared at the intruders. Captivated, the team passed stone lanterns dotting the obscure approach to the temple, and glancing at each other in uncertainty.
“This is our base camp,” Marco stated as the tired group gazed in silence at the faded vermillion painted temple forgotten in time, assessing the situation. Spanky growled in low tones, staring at the Buddha. Sparrows nested in hanging lanterns and every burrow of the roof.
“Stop thinking about it. Let’s move forward,” Marco ordered, walking under the red Torii gateway, the boundary between the spirit and the human worlds. The once manicured white-gravel garden had lost its geometric furrows and circular shapes to the unforgiving elements of nature.
“What does the sign say?” Rita asked, looking at the washed out Japanese characters.
“It says, Peace and Tranquility,” Butch answered.
"Peace and tranquility?"
“The Zen Buddhist priests that lived here believed in the intuitive experience and that man is naturally a free existence. You need only to grasp it for yourself to be free. Zen contributed greatly to the spiritual formation of the Samurai who learned the moral code and habit of contemplating life and death,” Butch informed her.
“Good answer. Thanks.” Rita replied, bobbing her head. “I see. Okay, good answer. Good answer. Thanks.”
“Almost there,” Marco said passing a discolored sign, walking up the worn wooden stairs. “Let’s get some sleep. Spread out. Find your spot,” he suggested, entering the massive room with a large stone-studded cooking hearth. The tired team followed Marco into the open-air room. Nesting wild ducks quacked in the huge room, flapping their wings as warm rain and wind began beating rhythmically against the loose roof tiles.
On the roof, large tropical green pigeons shook the dampness from their feathers, settling in for the night. Marco stopped in front of the rock-studded hearth as each person prepared for sleep. A fatigued Velvet stretched on top of her sleeping bag as rain dripped from the faded blue tiled roof. Rita opened her sleeping bag while swallowing 20 milligrams of Valium, then slipped into the warmth and comfort of her waterproof bag. Primo removed his boots, unscrewed the cap of his canteen and took a large gulp of scotch before rubbing his feet. Justin rested on top of his sleeping bag fully dressed with his eyes closed. Butch joined Marco at the fireplace and started stacking twigs, branches and kindling to ignite the fire. Marco poked at the kindling, and then ignited the neatly stacked wood. Scratching his scalp, he looked into Butch's eyes. In silence, they sensed the enormity of the task in front of them.
“Are you ready Butch?”
“I’m combat ready,” he smiled. “Locked and loaded.”
“We’re gonna bump-up our game. We received salvaging orders.”
“That was quick,” Butch said, surprised. “Who do we eliminate first?”
“Everyone on this island.”
“Everyone? Must be a lot of bad guys.”
“For now, we need wood,” Marco grumbled.
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s do it quickly,” Marco suggested, as both resigned themselves to the task.
“Primo! Grab those ducks. That’s our breakfast and dinner,” Marco ordered.
“Easy,” he replied, dropping his gear, chasing the ducks as they squawked in fear. Rita, watching the ducks strut away, drew her pistol, shooting the lead duck in the head.
“Jesus!” Primo shouted, flinching. “What’s wrong with you? Put that pistol away. You don’t need a weapon to kill ducks.”
“Sorry, I’m from L.A.,” she said watching Primo snap another duck’s neck with his bare hands.
“And there it is,” he replied, grinning.
“Wow! You’re quite a hunk.”
“I’ll snap your neck if you keep acting smart.”
“Lieutenant, she’s a woman and an Officer. Maintain your composure and military bearing,” Marco ordered.
“Ha! Composure won’t work,” she retorted. “Lobotomy maybe,” she mumbled.
�
�Yes sir,” Primo replied staring at Rita.
“No “Sirs” in the field.
“Yes Sir.”
“Rita, start boiling water,” Marco ordered.
“Me?”
“You! Both of you start preparing the ducks.”
“What do you mean preparing?” Rita inquired.
“You never learned to cook!” Primo smarted. “Ha! You can’t cook!”
“I never claimed to be a cook. I’m a surgeon.”
“Well, you should be able to skin a duck.”
“I ain’t skinning any duck.”
“Well, cut vegetables,” Marco chimed in.
“Are you kidding? Look at this place, there’re no vegetables here.”
“Well go find some!”
“Where?”
“Outside! Look in the back. See if there’s an old vegetable patch out there.”
“We’ll, I’ll be a Son-of-a B!” Rita mumbled, holding her tongue, angrily leaving her warm and cozy sleeping bag to search for food. “Talk about stone age. What a Neanderthal!” Rita complained passionately to herself.
“You say something?” Primo asked.
“Yeah! Neanderthal invented fire! Can you start a fire so we can boil water?”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. You’re giving me a double-message.”
“You’re a skillful problem solver. Yes you are.”
“From Adams rib to women’s Lib. Ya know, ten years ago women were a lot sweeter.”
“I’m sweet. I just have more testosterone than the average sweet girl.”
Rita’s Move
Later that Morning
With each passing moment, the islands breathless hush slowly reveals itself. In the distance, mist mantled mountain sides were covered with dense ferns and mosses. In the mountains’ crevices, eagles lay nesting in huge collections of branches forming aeries for incubating eggs. Lava ridges filled with tiny fresh water pools nourish small trumpet lilies and insects. On the forest floor, the slim-necked deadly poisonous habu snake with its broad head and erratic diamond pattern slithered away from Butch as he gathered wood. From the temple's entrance, Velvet watched a sea eagle chasing a sea bird. Rita admired a large slow flying iridescent butterfly. With arms filled with wood, Justin walked into the spacious open-air temple reasoning that everything seemed available. The team was trying to ease the policy of a permanent drug crisis. Ideology would not get in the way. Success would provide its own justification.