Also by R.A. Comunale
Requiem for the Bone Man
The Legend of Safehaven
Clover: A Dr. Galen Novel
Berto’s World
Dr. Galen’s Little Black Bag
Shoes: Tails from the Post
Copyright © 2013 R.A. Comunale
All Rights Reserved
ISBNs:
978-0-9885919-4-3 (EPUB)
978-1-4956005-9-3 (Mobi)
978-1-4956006-0-9 (PDF)
Published in the United States of America
By Safehaven Books
A division of Mountain Lake Press
Ebook formatting by
eBookIt
Cover concept by R.A. Comunale
Cover design by David Knowles
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to real persons living or dead is unintentional and purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photo-copying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
To the Cadet Corps of VMI
in memoriam
Ottie Klein Powell, “little lost boy of the mountain”
All VMI cadets who have served their country
and died on the field of honor
Foreword
Ducks and dykes.
Y’all sure use some strange terms.
Yes, I freely admit that I am not an alumnus of Virginia Military Institute, nor have I ever attended.
That was my loss.
My Rubenesque body would not have survived the tough discipline and workouts.
My introduction to VMI—my personal Virgil—is an alumnus who chooses to be known only as Leonidas. Like the Spartan king of old, he soon conquered my reservations about visiting a campus dedicated to both education and military preparedness.
Leonidas approached me one day with a suggestion for a novel centered on VMI. On his own time he conveyed me to the Post, showed me the landmarks, and recounted his own experiences as a young Rat. He showed me the farm, where the great battle of New Market took place, and related what I only knew briefly: the bravery and courage of an entire Corps of Cadets.
He also related some of the historical background of Lexington and Buena Vista, Virginia.
He then wisely told me, “It’s all yours. Run with it.”
I hope you enjoy it.
PART I: CHESTNUTS
Prologue
GENESIS 22:1-24
“Where are we going, Papa?”
“Climb up on my shoulders, boy.”
“But where are we going?”
“To the mountaintop.”
“Why?”
“To see God.”
Hegira
I was a moth pinned to the hospital bed by IV tubes.
The thread of my life echoed in the repetitive low pitched bugle note of the heart monitor.
Is that all there is?
Damn, Peggy Lee had it right.
Was it only just a few weeks ago…?
“Bye, Dad, see you on Fall Break.”
My daughter stood on her toes to kiss me on the cheek. My five-foot, ten-inch frame was no challenge to my little girl.
Little girl? She’s a senior in college now.
Does time really pass that quickly?
“Dad, what’s that spot on your neck?”
“Huh, what spot, Krissie?”
My beautiful, twenty-one-year-old daughter led me like a child by the hand to the hallway mirror in my apartment near Dulles Airport.
I stared at the one-inch, red and black spot, its irregular borders reaching out like some distorted crab across my skin.
She rubbed her fingers over it then suddenly pulled her hand away.
“Dad, didn’t you notice these bumps?”
I moved my hand over my neck and felt the cobblestones of death.
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I had my flight physical six months ago on a layover in Chicago”
“So your regular medical examiner didn’t see you.”
“No.”
She knew her old man was a commercial pilot. She also knew that I had to be checked out medically every six months in order to fly the big birds.
“Kristin, it wasn’t there six months ago. I’m sure of it.”
“Come on, Dad, let’s go see Doctor Galen.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“Has he ever turned you away?”
“No.”
The heavy-set old man had been my AME, aviation medical examiner, for as long as I had lived in Northern Virginia. Normally he would greet me with bad jokes and insults. It was what endeared him to pilots too numerous to count.
Not this time.
“It’s melanoma, Gus.”
“Cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Galen, how bad does Dad have it?”
The old doctor’s forehead was creased.
“It’s already spread to his liver and brain, Miss Belmont.”
“How long do I have, doc?”
Where’s Kristin? Come on, girl. Don’t let your old man fade out alone in this hospital .
You’re not alone, Gus.
“Wha…? Who said that?”
My tongue stuck dry inside my mouth.
“I … I can’t see you.”
Not yet.
“Am I dying?”
Yes.
“Must be the drugs they’re pumpin’ into me. You’re not real, Voice. But, just for the hell of it, I’ll play along. It’s better than waiting to die. Oh, what the hell, what’s the use. Who’m I kidding?
“You know, Voice, when I die, nothing will change. My life’s a cipher. I’ve never done anything worth remembering.”
You’ve got a beautiful daughter, Gus. Wasn’t that worth it?
“Dear God, yes, but… Hey, are you God?”
No, sir.
“Was that a kid? Hey, Voice, is he yours?”
Come on, Gus, you know him, too.
“Okay, so I don’t remember. What’s your name, kid?”
Don’t you know, sir?
Augustus “Gus” Belmont—that’s what they called me. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t escape my past.
In the Beginning Was
“Papa, why did we come to the mountain?”
“Hush, my son, I must pray to God.”
“But mama says you are having bad dreams.”
“O God of Abraham, I believe. Forgive me my unbelief.”
“Why are you crying, Papa?”
“He looks like a penguin!”
My daughter had never been to my old alma mater, Virginia Military Institute. Her mother, my ex, had never wanted her daughter exposed to “such stuff.”
But here we were, back at The Post.
It was Kristin’s idea.
“I want to spend my off time with you.”
She didn’t need to say “in your last days, Dad.”
“I thought you and your mother were going to Europe on fall break.”
It was Kristin’s senior year at William and Mary. I couldn’t have asked for a better daughter. Athletic, bright, five feet six, one-hundred-sixteen pounds of head-turning, eye-ogling classic Grecian face, topped by glistening blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. She could have her pick of the college boys in heat.
But this was her idea.
“Dad, why don’t we take a road trip together? We can visit all your old hangouts; it’ll be a trip down memory lane.”
“What are you going to tell your mom?”
“That I promised Renee I’d go with her to Narragansett.”
Renee was her roommate and BFF (best friend forever).
My ex and I were married fourteen years. I had met Sandy out west my second year in the Air Force. As any fly guy will tell you, women find us irresistible.
Yeah, right.
I was twenty four, flying C130s, the troop and cargo transport ships of the skies. Every time I climbed in one of those birds, my mind took off on wings of memory, of a time when I knew and loved that one special woman in my life.
No, it wasn’t Sandy.
Oh, I loved my wife in many ways. We were young. She was a teacher at the base school and we were both twenty-four and unattached. I considered myself lucky to be picked by the auburn-haired, green-eyed slender girl who sought my help fixing a flat tire on her car just off base.
It wasn’t a whirlwind romance. We actually tested ourselves for a whole six months before finding a J.P. (justice of the peace) and sealing the deal. Twelve months later, it was me, Sandy and baby Kristin.
We moved around a bit over the next ten years, our housing improving as my military status went to bird-colonel level. But Sandy had dreams of moving east and, I guess, so did I. My roots were in Ohio and my post high school education in Virginia.
Tornadoes, dust storms and droughts were not my cup of tea. And, despite my love of flying, neither were the frequent away times when I had temporary posting in innumerable mid-eastern and Asian bases, ferrying troops into whatever local conflict we were engaged in.
It was the opening position at a commercial airline that had clinched the deal.
Year twelve found us in Northern Virginia with me a civilian for the first time since I’d started college. Sandy readily found work as an E.S.L. (English as a second language) teacher. Her linguistic skills in Spanish, honed by the numerous immigrant waves along the U.S. southwestern border areas, were a big plus in the hiring process.
Our little girl, our Kristin, would have been at home anywhere, even on the moon. She never ceased to amaze Sandy and me with her adaptability and acceptance of change.
I watched her blossom into a young woman in the Virginia climate.
Things seemed to be ideal until…
“I want a divorce, Gus.”
It was Kristin’s fourteenth birthday. She had blown out the candles on her cake—chocolate mousse, if I remember correctly—and she and her friends had gone outside to yack and text as only teenage girls can do.
I was helping Sandy clear the debris produced by eight fourteen-year-olds and two adults from the dining room in our Reston, Virginia, home.
I looked up and saw my wife standing there, giving me one of her intense looks.
All husbands know that look. You can never tell if your spouse is going to start an argument, present a problem with the kids, or just … because.
“You want a horse? Why?”
I thought it was a joke.
She came closer.
“Gus, I want a divorce.”
I never quite understood why she wanted to break up. All she did was to repeat over and over that she needed to find herself.
What could I say? “Is it something I said or did? I thought everything was going great, Sandy.”
She shook her head and ran to our bedroom, locking the door behind her.
I turned and saw Kristin standing in the open patio doorway, crying.
She ran to me, and I held her.
It was amicable. We shared joint custody of our only child, but it was never the same for me.
I blamed myself. My job kept me away a lot. I guess I still blame myself.
And, deep down, I still remembered my first love—Lauren.
“Dad, did you hear what I said?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Krissie…”
My mind had done some time traveling while my daughter was speaking to me.
“You sure you want to spend your vacation with an old man?”
A nod of the head and a kiss on my cheek—it was settled.
It wasn’t a long journey. From Northern Virginia, Interstate 66 winds gently west to Interstate 81’s southwesterly heading. Three hours of rolling farms and mountain ranges later we were on the outskirts of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
“Your old man used to spend a lot of off-time in those hills, girl.”
“Why?”
How could I tell her? How do I describe what college life was like at a military institute with the reputation and renown of VMI? You can’t know unless you’ve lived it.
We threaded our way up and down mountain roads and finally turned off Route 60 and climbed the hill to the entryway to my past.
Tawny yellow buildings, stark and spare, lined the way and I felt the same shiver that a not-quite eighteen-year-old Gus Belmont felt when the boy that was my past first saw the Post on the outskirts of Lexington, Virginia.
We pulled up in front of the Stonewall Jackson Arch, one of the four gateway arches to the five-story barracks that housed the men and women of the Corps. I felt a bit weak as I opened the car door but that familiar mountaintop breeze that had once meant both pleasure and pain rejuvenated me.
“Did you dress like that?”
Kristin caught her first glimpse of what I wore for four years of my life: white ducks—trousers—and gray tunic.
“Yep, and, not to brag, daughter, but I looked damned good in them, too.”
She laughed as she looked at my still-lean frame then gasped as an obviously new cadet came running past, arms braced at his sides, back stiff in what we then affectionately called the straining position—the one she had said looked like a penguin.
“Dad, what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a Rat, Kristin. It’s his first year, and he and his classmates are still not fully accepted yet. In another couple of months, he will be. But for now, he’s still in what we called the Rat Line and has to endure some damned hard discipline to prove he’s worthy of being a VMI cadet and member of the Corps.”
“You had to do this?”
“Yes.”
God yes, girl. And stuff I can’t even tell you about yet.
I turned and exercised my right as an alumnus.
“Out of the Rat Line, cadet.”
Instantly the kid’s shoulders relaxed even as he continued to run toward his destination.
We walked through the archway after I notified the guard on duty at the office.
“That’s where I lived.”
She stared at the inner courtyard and the five-storied barracks with their balconied stoops and cast iron outside stairways leading to each floor.
The wind rose and banshee howled through the archways.
Is that a snare drum roll I hear?
The stoops suddenly filled with cadets wrapped in blankets.
Where did the sunlight go?
I see them marching in, single file, fifteen men and women.
Oh, my God, I see myself … and Lauren.
And then I hear the words that struck terror through all of us, even those who participated in the decision.
Court, ten-hut!
Court, fall in.
Tonight your Honor Court has met. After a trial hearing, it has found Cadet Ashburn, Donald R., guilty of cheating. He has left the institution, never to return, and his name will not be mentioned within the four walls of barracks again.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
My knees buckled and suddenly two cadets are holding me up.
It’s daylight once more.
“I’m … I’m okay now.”
My voice was shaky. Even I could hear the tremor.
“Sir, do you need medical attention?”
“Uh … no, thank you, cadet. Just an old man reliving the past. I’ll be all right. Come on, Kristin, let’s go back outside.”
My first steps were unsteady but then I found my cadence.
“Wanna see the old man march?”
“Quit joking, Dad. Let’s go back to the car.”
“Wait. There are a few more things I want to show you.”
We walked across the narrow turnaround street in front of the castle-like barracks and approached the statue of Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. There he stood on his stone pylon, facing the parade grounds, defended by four ancient artillery pieces.
“Let me introduce you to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
“What?”
“The artillery pieces.”
“The cannons?”
I nodded then saluted old Stonewall.
“Come on, we’ll drive through the rest of the Post. But first, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
I opened the hatchback trunk of our SUV and smiled as my daughter saw what lay inside.
“Camping gear!”
My little girl loved camping. Her mother never did. She said the military housing she grew up in was camping enough for her; but the last time we vacationed together as a family was a camping trip—something Kristin pleaded to do for her twelfth birthday.
My wife’s face could have turned cucumbers into pickles the day we took the old family car down the road for a weekend campout in the cabins near Potomac Falls.
Truth be told, it wasn’t a camp out with tents and bags for Sandy and me. She would never have agreed to that. But Kristin, now a full-fledged girl scout, brought her own tent and stuff while my wife and I roughed it inside an air-conditioned cabin with cable TV.
I guess my little girl inherited that love of outdoors from my side of the genetic crap shoot.
“Where are we going camping, Dad?”
“Uh-uh, not yet. I haven’t shown you the rest of the Post.”
“Why do you keep calling it that? Isn’t it a campus?”
“Tradition.”
We drove past the classroom buildings and Crozet Hall, where I got indigestion those critical first four months learning to eat what we called square meals, a unique torture imposed on Rats.
“Ever eat a square meal, Krissie?”
She gagged as I told her how we had to brace upright while sitting down and move our arms in right angle motions to bring food to our mouths.
“How can anyone live like that?’
We did. It taught us discipline, self-control, and something most civilians can’t appreciate: esprit de corps .
Shoes: Tails from the post Page 1