“Have you considered that God could be closing one door and opening another one?”
“No, I hadn’t thought past my pain.”
“I want you to do this. Keep an open mind and forgive everyone involved. Keep your eyes prayerfully open and expectant of what God may do next. Faith is the key. When the door opens, you’ll know it.”
The words of the chaplain penetrated my heart as surely as a surgeon’s knife. He prayed with me, and we had a second cup of coffee. A load was lifted off my shoulders and I felt I could be free. With no plans, the possibilities were endless, not just purposeless. I had my lifeline, and I would take it. I visited with the chaplain, and he told me stories of his glory days at Notre Dame until it was time to go.
I took an uneventful flight to Saigon, and then hit the military transport to San Francisco. When we reached Travis AFB, I picked up my baggage and checked for a flight that would be going to England AFB. I was to report stateside to San Francisco to a MAJ Callahan for debriefing, which I thought was unusual because I was a naval officer, and major was not a naval rank.
GOING STATESIDE AND THE OFFER
I assumed I was to be processed out. MAJ Callahan met me at the airport personally. As I looked at the other servicemen, I realized that no official military officers were greeting them, and I was curious. I followed the major out to his car and threw my seabag into his trunk. The major directed me to sit in the front passenger’s seat. As the car moved down the interstate, I drank in all of the sights and sounds of my country like a child discovering it for the first time.
MAJ Callahan saw me looking at the radio, which was turned off. Seeing my interest, he motioned an invitation for me to turn it on. I was all over it like a fat kid given a cake. In no time I had a rock-and-roll station tuned in and was listening to Simon and Garfunkel singing “Cecelia.” “Cecelia, you’re breaking my heart…” That will not do, I thought. I changed it to another station, and Santana was playing. “You’ve got to change your evil ways, baby.” I wasn’t in the mood for heartbreak or evil woman songs. I turned it off and looked out the window as the government sedan traveled down the interstate.
“Dear John letter, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant, what are your plans?”
“Sir, I haven’t any, sir. My girlfriend dumped me, my parents are dead, and my little brother is running the family farm.” Vietnam’s future and my own uncertain future was a dark storm brewing over my mind.
“You’re a fine pilot. Ever consider continuing to serve?”
“The war is winding down for the US, and it looks as though all Charlie is waiting for is for us to leave.”
“What if I were to tell you that I can get you into a unit that takes fighting communists to the next front? There will be no cowardly politicians or antiwar protestors to worry about. And what’s more, you will make a difference. Be warned, there will be no glory for battles won, no public recognition.”
Suddenly I saw the open door that the padre told me about, and I wasn’t about to let it close. “I’m not in it for the glory; sign me up.”
As we pulled up to his office, I had a sense that the offer was genuine.
MAJ Callahan bade me to follow him to his office. “Lieutenant, have a seat.” He took a seat at his desk, and I sat down across from him. “Were you serious about starting a new chapter in your service to America?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you have any business stateside?”
My parent’s farm was willed to my brother and the only property I had was a red convertible ‘65 Mustang on blocks back at the farm. My ex-fiancée married someone else while I was in ‘Nam. “I have no unfinished business.”
“Okay then. I want all of your property including clothes that have any military identification.” MAJ Callahan threw me some civilian clothes just my size. “Lieutenant, please change your clothes.”
I handed him my seabag with all of my personal effects in it, and quickly changed into the civilian clothes he gave me. He opened my seabag and revealed the walnut carrying case containing my two pearl-handled Colt forty-fives.
“Very nice. Do you have any shells with it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take the shells; the pistols you can keep.”
I surrendered three boxes of .45 shells. He checked the cylinders in my pistols to make sure they weren’t loaded and handed the box with my pistols back. After changing into the civilian clothes that he gave me, the major took all of my personal identification and the pictures of my grandparents and parents.
An uneasy feeling was settling upon me, replacing the sadness that was dominating my mind the previous minute. The major had seen that look before. “Relax, you’ll get these back when you arrive at your post.” The major was busy filling out paperwork, in a file that was marked LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon, Jr. After he finished writing, he pulled out an inkpad and stamp and firmly stamped it on one of the papers, pressing it evenly so the mark was clear. I caught a glimpse just in time to see the word “DECEASED” in red letters on the page. Instantly my mind thought of stories I’d heard of some kind of covert CIA ops where the agent is officially “dead.” What was I getting into? I thought. My internal klaxon inside was sounding off, as real as any all-stations alert, causing tight knots to form in my stomach.
He chuckled as if he was party to an inside joke. “Don’t worry. Where you’re going, son, there are no newspapers or protesters following you—just Soviets to fight.”
“I noticed you are a major and I am in the Navy. How did you get access to my discharge papers?”
“Someone very important decided to pull some strings to invite you to join an elite force.”
I was beginning to feel like Tom Sawyer at his own funeral. I pointed at the paperwork. “How did I die?”
“Officially, you were part of a helo crash from Bin Thuy to Saigon. Bodies burned beyond recognition, that sort of thing. All of the paperwork of your getting to Saigon and coming home will be shredded. Your family will be notified. I am sorry for the loss they will feel, but it can’t be helped. Your “body” will be flown back and buried with full military honors in a closed casket ceremony.”
“What if the offer doesn’t work out? I mean, if you find me unsuitable for the task?”
“Then we’ll discover that we were mistaken about your death, and apologize to your kin for upsetting them.”
I was given three days’ liberty in San Francisco, but I was ordered not to discuss any of this with anyone. For my liberty, I was given civilian ID, some money, a phone number and an address to report to at zero eight hundred on the third day. Spending the next three days seeing San Francisco, I tasted the food, went to Chinatown, rode the trolley cars, and talked confidently to women I’d never met before and hoped to make some memories. Soaking in a real bathtub every night for an hour was a luxury I had sorely missed. The three days were over way too soon. I sucked it up and reported to the address I was given.
I checked the address on the paper one more time and knocked on the door. 1LT Wilson gave me a new flight bag with what seemed to be all the gear and personal things needed. He motioned me to follow him. As we got close to the door, I noticed two other young men dressed just as I was, standing at the door. We all piled into his van and were driven toward New Mexico—into the desert. The fact that I was officially “dead” and being taken for a ride into the desert set off my internal claxon to the color of blood.
WELCOME TO HELL
Our driver, Corporal Heily gave us our travel rules. “You are not to ask or reveal your real names to anyone in this van. We will be eating in the van when we do eat. I’ll go into the establishment and order our food “to go.” You will not get out. Stretch breaks will be done on desert highways when there’s no traffic. We will have bathroom breaks at small gas stations along the way. When we stop, do your business and get back in the van. You are not allowed to wander around or talk with civilians. I’ll do all of the tal
king. If you can’t avoid a civilian, keep the conversation short and respectful.” Our driver was not very talkative; he only spoke when he had to, and nothing more. I got to know the men that rode with me in the van, as much as you can without real names, that is. We were all either marines or sailors. We all had one thing in common. We were not ready to quit fighting communists. You might say we all had some unfinished business.
Twenty-two hours later we arrived at an undisclosed location somewhere in the New Mexico desert. We’d passed barbed wire and private property signs about fifty miles back. We pulled up to a group of barracks and stopped. The driver left us alone in the bus without saying a word. About a minute later, a door opened and a very large black man in a uniform I didn’t recognize stuck his head into the bus. He started screaming at the top of his lungs in the most intimidating way imaginable. “You sorry excuse for human beings, get out of my bus! No! You are not human beings, you are whale crap, and it is my duty to my country to make sure each and every one of you fails this training! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!” Everyone was trying to get out at once. There were four exits: two front doors, side sliding door and a rear door. We looked like a bunch of cockroaches surprised by someone turning the light on at night. When we finally got out, we were made to fall into formation.
The man that startled us out of the van was even more intimidating as he stalked up and down our line, sizing us up and eyeing us with contempt. “My name is Master Sergeant Darkside. You are training for a nameless elite force of the United States of America which has no affiliation with the five military branches, to fight communists. You are never to speak of this unit in public. As far as the American public knows, you are all dead, and as such, I can do anything I want with you. I’m your Senior Drill Instructor! You will refer to me as Senior Drill Instructor or Sir! Each time you address me you will start with sir and end with sir! I am not your friend! My last class had a seventy percent dropout rate, but I’m on a learning curve right now.” He smiled for a moment as his eyes shone with appreciation for his own accomplishment. “This time I expect to wash out more of you, maybe all of you, as you are much more pitiful than the last class. This class is twelve weeks long. If there is any defect or weakness in you, I will find it. I will exploit it with every mean and evil trick I have at my disposal.” His eyes bored holes into me with that last remark “If I wash out all of you, I get to spend the rest of the training session chasing women and drinking beer in southern California… and working on my suntan.”
He paused to see if anyone cracked a smile thinking of a man so black talking about getting a tan. I was fairly petrified and his joke didn’t faze me one bit. “Anyone who is unusually stubborn that tries to deprive me of my liberty will suffer. There are two other instructors, Sergeant First Class Ironsides and Staff Sergeant Iron Fist. We are to be obeyed without question. You will not talk back, make excuses, or let down your teammates. We turn the lights out at twenty-two hundred each night. Before we turn the lights on at zero four hundred each morning, you will hit the floor and begin dressing. You will eat your meals without talking, keep your sleeping area clean and orderly and make your bed each morning after dressing. You will be taught how to make a proper bed, and I better never see a wrinkle or crease in the sheets or blankets. You are not to tell any of the other trainees your real name, or ask theirs. You will be identified in the following manner.” He pointed to each man in turn and said, “Jones, Smith, Williams, Carter, Holmes, Lewis, White, Black, Green, and Brown.” (I was now Smith) “You are to join the rest of the trainees that arrived yesterday. Line up, single file and report to the quartermaster to receive your gear and uniforms.”
I was issued a seabag and two new khaki uniforms. They marched us to the barracks, ordered us to put on one of the uniforms and instructed us to pack the contents of our seabag in the footlocker at the foot our beds. Once we were in uniform, MSG Darkside spoke once more. “You are to report to the armory to receive your training rifle. The armory is the last building on the left. MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!”
We all lined up and marched in quick time to the armory. We met SSG Iron Fist there, who handed each of us a cadet’s training rifle that weighed about the same as a sniper rifle, with a rifle strap and a fake sniper scope. “Okay ladies, this is my sniper rifle. I had better never see you without it. You will carry it during all of your training. You will keep one hand on it while you eat, and it will be placed next to your bed while you sleep. DO NOT lose my rifle! There will be hell to pay if you do! The reason that this isn’t a real rifle is that we don’t give a real rifle to little sissy girls. You have to prove that you are a man before that will ever happen. I seriously doubt any of you will ever get a real rifle.”
He stopped speaking, and suddenly a look of unbelief emerged on his face, as though he was in charge of the worst bunch of idiots alive. “What’re you looking at? Fall in, in front of the building!” he screamed.
After we fell out, he eyed us like an eagle looking at a mouse. “That rifle is your companion. The day that I catch you without hand on it or its sling, you are through. You will even do push-ups with one hand on the rifle. The only exceptions are when you are asleep or in the shower. When showering, it had better be just outside the shower, but don’t let it get wet! The proper placement of your rifle when you sleep, and until you are dressed is against the wall, within three feet of you at all times. You will find my favorite form of character building, or in most of your cases, washing you out, is to run. Run, run, run.” For the first time he smiled and I knew we were in trouble. “There are twenty trainees that arrived yesterday, nearly as sorry as you are. We will now join them. Fall in, single file, double time.”
We followed him to the end of the compound where a class of twenty men was still doing pushups from when he walked away and left them. He ordered them to fall in with us, and we started running. Considering this was a desert, he seemed to be holding back from what he would have done in a milder climate. Even so, it was brutal. I was acclimated to jungle humidity, and this was a stark contrast. We ran, then we walked and then we ran some more. We stopped to get some shade every once in a while, but the instructors made good use of the time by lecturing us on communism and freedom. When they decided we were up to it again, there was more running and walking, running and walking.
On the second day, we were joined by another sixteen trainees. By the end of the second week, they adding rock climbing and repelling with a sixty-pound backpack to the routine, with ropes and climbing gear. I began to notice a pattern. They ran us very hard early in the morning and just before dark, when it was cooler. During the heat of the day, we did physical training or pt inside of the main training building, or on the shaded side of a mountain.
We had a weird setup with the instructors. Two of them were pushers, who seemed to delight in torturing us in any way they could, but SFC Ironsides was the encourager. The encourager’s job was to try to get the trainees to keep going, appealing to their sense of teamwork and honor. He would say, “If you quit, you’ll let your teammates down. You don’t want to be a quitter, do you?” The idea was for the pushers to push us past what we thought we were capable of, and the encourager would help us draw on anything else we had left. Even with the encouragement, by week four we were down to thirty trainees.
Normally you at least had the personal pride of knowing you were training for the Marine Corps Force Recon, Navy SEALs, or Army Rangers. In those elite units, while the instructors were tearing your pride down, you were developing another sense of pride in what you were training to become. It was not so in this case. The ones who washed out were never to know what they washed out of. This way they couldn’t reveal anything about the organization. I knew nothing other than I was training to fight communists.
If I left, I would be resurrected “from the dead” and discharged. I was sure there was a bumper crop of ex-military pilots competing for jobs with the major airlines, with the war in ‘Nam winding down. Besides, even if
I didn’t know where we were going, the idea of continuing the unfinished business with the communists had hooked me. I was here to stay. I was determined that they couldn’t kill me and anything short of that couldn’t stop me.
Then it happened. During week six of the training, one of the trainees known as Green, collapsed. The instructors sent us on a light duty drill with SFC Ironsides, our encourager, while they took him to a medic. It was later learned that he’d died from a congenital heart defect that he had from birth that no one had caught in the physicals. The stakes had now been raised. SFC Ironsides gave us the news about Green. He said it was a tragedy, but it couldn’t have been foreseen. He told us to take heart. Our class would be getting a strenuous physical examination before we resumed training. All of us were examined again from head to toe by a new doctor and pronounced fit to resume. I’d convinced myself that they would have to run me off or kill me to make me quit. Now I was unsure about whether or not I could die in training.
By the end of the week, we were down to twenty-two trainees. The death of Green was disheartening to some. Each man knew he could die in training, and the washout rate increased.
Once the pushers were convinced we were fit and that we weren’t going to die on them, they turned up the pressure. Now we were able to run all of the time, except for the hottest part of the day. The order of each morning was to perform a circus, which was doing PT until you collapsed, which we despised. There didn’t seem to be a minimum standard for us; we just had to give one hundred percent. It was their job to push us to the limit and beyond. At first I thought they were trying to transform us into supermen. It became clear to me that the goal was to keep the ones who couldn’t accept failure as an option, who would see the possibilities and not the obstacles. In short, they wanted men who were physically and mentally tough, who could get the job done.
By week ten, it became apparent that if I were going to finish, I had to be able to ignore my body’s protest for lack of proper food, sleep, and water. I had to force it to function on autopilot. Every part of my physical being cried out for rest and it seemed I functioned at times asleep on my feet. Like the myth about earwigs that bored into a man’s ear and then into his brain, the desire for a big, fat, greasy cheeseburger had burrowed itself into my mind and would not leave. I had to push thoughts of pleasant food out of my mind or I feared I’d go insane.
Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars Page 16