CHAPTER 2
I was having a dream. A really odd one. Generally my dreams involved a blonde on a beach who was very open-minded. In this case, I was standing on a dock on a lake. The water was a perfect blue as was the sky. There were hills on the far side and they were such a perfect green it was literally unearthly. It was, easily, the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.
I wasn’t alone, either. There was a guy sitting at the end of the dock trying to get his reel to work. It was obviously snarled. Next to him, to his right, was a bucket presumably filled with bait. And another fishing pole. The guy was wearing a T-shirt and ball cap.
I went over, sat down on the end of the dock and examined him more closely. He was maybe in his fifties, long brown hair and beard. He looked sort of like the various ragheads I’d come to know and loathe (Christian or Muslim, they were all ragheads to the One-Eight and equally shitty.) But I didn’t really get a “loathe” vibe from him. The ball cap was a New Orleans Saints cap.
The bait was as odd as the rest of the place. It sort of looked like bread but the smell coming from it was heavenly. I pulled out a pinch. Sniff. Yeah, smelled like honey and…I don’t know what. Ambrosia came to mind. I couldn’t resist and tried a bite.
I could literally live on that stuff the rest of my life. And that was the bait.
“What is this stuff?” I asked.
“Manna,” the man said.
I put some bait on the hook, took another bite, and tossed out the line.
“You want this one, sir?” I asked. “I can get that undone.”
He hadn’t even taken the cover off the reel. He was never getting it fixed that way.
“I don’t want to use the term ‘hate’ for something like this,” the guy said. “It’s too strong a word. But I…dislike and don’t understand these modern things. This is not what I call fishing.”
He took the rod from me and nodded thanks.
“So…” I said, starting to fix the line. “This is an odd dream.”
“You usually dream about girls on a beach with low morals,” the man said.
“Generally,” I replied. I looked down into the water and it was as clear as air. I could see a school of fish, they looked like koi, below us. I really couldn’t tell how big they were because it was so clear I couldn’t get a feeling for distance. Below them were…There wasn’t a bottom. Waaaay down there were what looked like clouds. And maybe more water. And…
“Is that…Earth down there?” I asked as something whipped past. “And was that a satellite?”
“Those things,” the man said with a slightly aggrieved sigh. “The Boss says they’re just temporary until humans figure out quantum tunneling. Whatever that is. Way over my pay grade.”
He had what must have been one of the gentlest bites in history. More like the fish politely tugged on the line to get his attention. He carefully reeled it in and the koi simply followed the line in, no fighting. When it got to the dock, it carefully spit out the blunt hook. The man tossed it a ball of the bait and it kicked its tail and swam away.
“I’m starting to get the feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
“You weren’t in Kansas when you died,” the man said then winced. “Sorry, that came out rather abruptly.”
“Uhm. Okay. Last I remember I was hitting the rack in the barracks.” I looked around. There was a distinct lack of hellfire and brimstone which was good. But, honestly, fishing like this for the rest of eternity might just turn into hell ’cause I was already seriously bored. “Do I get to know what happened?”
“Truck bomb. I regret to inform you that the rest of your platoon is, in fact, already through…in process and settling in nicely.” He seemed from time to time to be listening to someone as if he was getting a radio call with the right terms.
“I guess I’m a borderline case?” I asked. “Few too many girlfriends?”
“While you’re a borderline case, not for that reason.”
“Honor thy father and thy mother?” I asked. “I’d be an atheist with no morals or conscience whatsoever. Like, say, my brother?”
“Not an issue,” the man said.
“So…” I asked. “What’s my problem?”
“The Boss thinks you’ve got some stuff to do back on earth,” the man said. “And you’re the right candidate to do it. So, up to you, there might be a minor miracle. To be honest, and that’s sort of what we’re supposed to be, you probably should ask for a straight pass to the next point. You’re already in, that’s not the problem. But the Boss wants you to do some stuff, first. Reason you might want to ask for this cup to pass from your lips is…Well, the best that’s going to happen is minor miracle. Going back is going to seriously hurt. As in ‘Did I just get shipped to Hell?’ hurt. And the rest of your life is going to be no picnic, either.”
“Stuff like make up with my parents?”
“Boss, no,” the man said. “Your mother is a harpy, your brother is headed in the direction of purest evil and your father is a sexual predator of impressionable young women. Stay as far away from those people as you can! Stuff like on a mission, stuff.”
“From G…” I said, then hesitated. “The Boss.”
“Big Guy,” the man said. “Patriarchal Beard in the Sky as your mother would put it. Yeah.”
“Don’t get me wrong when I ask this. Are there any benefits? ’Cause if I stay here, the benefits are obvious. And you did mention pain. I suspect that’s something like every bone in my body broken in the blast.”
“You already got the benefits, son,” the man said. “You think those remarkable physical skills, the ease in learning, the fluency with languages, you think that was all genetics?”
“Point,” I said. I thought about it for a moment. What would Mr. Brentwood do? Put that way, the answer was obvious. If he was told he had a mission from God, he’d face any challenge to complete it.
“Minor miracle it is,” I said. “‘Duty is heavier than mountains. Death is lighter than a feather.’ If it’s my duty to go back, well, that’s my duty.”
“Then in a bit you’ll wake up, briefly, under your desk,” the man said. “Briefly because you’ll almost immediately pass out from agony. The minor miracle will be that you were blown off your bed under your desk which the wall locker then fell on protecting at least part of your body from the cascading rubble.”
“That would require a ninety-degree turn,” I said, thinking about the arrangement of my barracks room.
“Thus the minor miracle.”
“Okay. Since it hasn’t come up, can I ask you your name, sir?”
“Just call me Pete. You ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, putting down the rod.
“There is one last bit,” Pete said. “The Boss sent a message. There will be a sign. And the sign shall be:” He paused dramatically. “Fifty-Seven.”
“Does the Boss realize that the single most popular brand of ketchup on earth has a fifty-seven on every bottle?” I asked. “I’m supposed to look for a separate and singular fifty-seven?”
“That’s all I’ve got,” Pete said. “The Boss is a very busy guy. That’s the real reason His messages tend to be cryptic. Ever read an e-mail from a Fortune 500 CEO? Short, blunt, to the point and nearly indecipherable. That’s what I got. ‘Throw him back if he will. Job to do. Sign shall be fifty-seven.’ Up to you to figure it out.”
“What’s an e-mail?” I asked.
“Take a deep breath,” Saint Peter said. “Remember to look for the sign. This is going to hurt…”
* * *
OH FUTHERMUCKER!
I choked twice in total darkness. I could taste copper and the pain went through into some special place that was impossible to experience and survive. Then I passed out.
I woke up again when the pain went through the roof. There was light and dust.
“We found one!”
I coughed again, somehow realizing I had nearly been out of air. I gasped and the pain was too much…
A helicopter. Light and shadow. The smell of jet fuel and a hot deck. Someone bent over me praying. I got clear-headed enough to try to mutter: “Don’t bother. You’re late.”
The first clear memory was being in a darkened hospital ward with an oxygen mask on my face, a really dry mouth and so high on painkillers it would have made my mother weep with joy if I took it up as a habit. From the furniture I could see and the layout, it wasn’t a hospital in the States. I couldn’t really move. Part of that was I didn’t want to move, ’cause I could tell there would be more pain if I did, and part of that was the more or less full body cast. All I could really see was IVs, lots of plaster and both my legs and right arm up in traction. Presumably I still had a left arm. I tried to lift it. I could see it and it was moving but not real well. I decided it was just pure weakness and not nerve damage. But it wasn’t getting me a drink either way.
I hated to do it, but I let out a moan. Best I could do. I was hoping some kind soul would hear it and maybe put a straw to my lips or something.
Nada.
I passed out shortly thereafter, never having seen a soul the whole time.
The next time I woke up, the ward was bustling with doctors and nurses, several of whom were speaking Greek.
“Neró?” I whispered. It was the best I could do. “Neró?”
“You want some water?” one of the nurses said, noticing the whispers.
“Parakaló,” I replied.
She put a straw to my lips and I gulped the water down.
“Sas efcharistó,” I muttered.
“You are American, yes?” she asked, confused.
“I speak a little Greek,” I said. “Where?”
“You are in the military hospital of Heraclea Airbase,” she said. “You were injured in a bombing of your barracks.”
“Unit?” I asked.
“I don’t have any information on that,” she said, unhappily. I was pretty sure that was a lie. “One of the officers will speak to you shortly.”
“Again, Sas efcharistó,” I said. “Back to sleep now…”
There had been a truck bomb. Everyone else in my platoon hadn’t made it. Bought the farm. Pushin’ daisies. There had been a minor miracle in my case. I’d somehow ended up shielded by my desk.
I could have rationalized the dream. The brain does funky things with trauma. The dream could have been reconstructed memory.
That would have required me being as completely idiotic as the rest of my family.
Shortly after I’d gotten the full skinny, a chaplain came through the ward bringing aid and comfort. He already had my religion. As the biggest stick in the eye I could imagine to my mother, if she ever found out, when asked my religion in MEPS, I’d answered “Primitive Baptist.” I really had no idea what Primitive Baptist meant but it sounded bad. The chaplain, an Episcopalian, tried manfully to support me in my simple faith.
“Father,” I said as he was trying to figure out how to deal with a bereaved Primitive Baptist. Should he ask if there were snakes available? “Primitive Baptist was a joke. I was raised Atheist. My mother refers to me as a babykiller.”
“Oh,” he said. Then: “What?”
“No offense, but is there a Catholic priest around? And how do I officially change my religion?”
A Catholic chaplain eventually made the rounds. He was a young captain, Air Force, who was Vietnamese of all things. I’d gotten to the point that I could more than grunt and moan by that time. So we talked. He had no problem with the vision or the possibility that it was simply a pain- and trauma-induced dream. Either one worked equally well in his mind. He dismissed it being reconstructed. Based on my general knowledge, I could have created it while trapped in the rubble. Or it could have been Saint Peter.
“The real question is the matter of the sign,” Father Van said, thoughtfully. “It very well might involve a bottle of ketchup. Stranger signs have happened. But I rather think it will be something else. Just leave yourself open to the sign revealing itself. You don’t have to look for signs, my son. A sign from God is always rather clear.”
He had the inclination, but not the time, to go through all the matters necessary to convert to the Catholic faith. He suggested, since I was shortly going to be shipped stateside, that I do so there. And possibly when I’d gotten out of the full body cast.
“Pretty hard to kneel like this, sir.”
“Keep the faith, my son,” Father Van said. “And that saving sense of humor.”
I was eventually put on a plane and shipped halfway around the world to end up at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington, DC. Same place they took President Reagan. Who, without any word to the press, met the plane, talked to all of us and shook my one good hand.
He looked me right in the eye as he shook my hand with his left.
“Glad to have you back, son,” the President said, solemnly. “You’re a credit to the Marine Corps.”
“And as soon as I’m out of these casts, I’m going to be back in action, Mr. President.”
You could tell he was trying not to tear up.
The White House photographer took our picture together. I have it framed on my wall, President Reagan smiling solemnly and me grinning ear-to-ear in my full body cast. Which he even signed.
He’d made a lousy choice to proceed with that particular mission. Dick, hornet’s nest. He’s still one of the two greatest presidents of the twentieth century and I’m going to almost give him the edge on Eisenhower.
Then came possibly the single worst moment of my life. Including waking up in hellish pain in the rubble of the destroyed barracks.
My mother came to visit.
Picture if you will. It was an open bay ward. By the 1980s, even for enlisted, they preferred shared rooms. The bay looked as if it hadn’t been used since the Vietnam War. When I mentioned that, one of the nurses admitted it hadn’t been used since World War II, just updated. Slightly.
And in comes my mother. Because, as “next of kin,” she’d been informed her precious son had been returned to the United States. And why don’t you visit?
I guess she managed to keep her mouth shut past security. But once she was on the ward, all hell broke loose.
“Mom?” I asked. I was still in a full body cast. There was exactly zip I could do. But I knew what was coming.
“Well, it serves you right, babykiller,” she snarled, right there in front of God and everybody. Including about four Navy nurses and a Navy doctor. “The only thing that would make it better is if you’d been killed in that justified bombing! Down with Israel! Down with the tyranny of capitalism! Down with the fascist Imperialists!”
“Mom!” I shouted. “You don’t understand! You never heard I got promoted!”
“What?” she shrieked. “Why should I care, you fascist bastard!”
“I got promoted to Babykiller First Class, Mom!” I shouted over her. “It only took bayoneting two hundred of them! They taste like chicken! Do the whole village! Do the whole village!”
You could see the “what the fuck?” expressions on the shocked faces of the doctors and nurses. But shortly after that, security was called and my mother was permanently blacklisted from Bethesda Naval Hospital.
After she, and security and the doctors, had left, one of the other Marines looked over at me.
“Dude,” he said. “You’ve got a seriously fucked-up mom.”
“You think? What gave you your first clue?”
“Babykiller First Class?” another said. “Oh, don’t make me laugh! It hurts!”
“‘They taste like chicken!’” the guy all the way at the end of the ward yelled.
Laughing hurt so good.
Then, naturally, the Brentwoods came to visit. And stayed. They moved in with another Marine couple they’d known for years with a house in Alexandria. They not only visited me, they visited pretty much every Marine in the hospital. Mr. Brentwood had taken a leave of absence from the school district to make sure I was going to be okay. He spent the time he wasn’t talking to me going around the hospital telling WWII stories and explaining how, yep, recovery sucked pretty much the same now as back then. Mrs. Brentwood smuggled in real food.
They almost immediately heard about the incident with my mother. Mrs. Brentwood tried very hard not to be amused.
“Oliver Chadwick Gardenier,” she said, shaking her head. “That was…” She stopped, looking for the right stern words and started giggling instead.
“Serves that harridan right,” Mr. Brentwood said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh, God, I want out of this cast,” I said, chuckling. “I miss eating babies.”
The casts slowly came off and tubes slowly came out. Then the fun part started: physical tyranny.
I knew there was a point to it. If there was going to be any chance I’d ever be able to be a Marine rifleman again, I had to go through it. But it was really God-awful. I stuck precisely to their regime. If they told me to lift five pounds ten times, I lifted exactly five pounds ten times. And that’s where it started, five pounds, ten reps. I was so incredibly weak I simply could not believe it. And I don’t care what they say, the hospital food did not help. I needed some of Momma Brentwood’s chicken fried steak and gravy.
Finally I was released to go live with the Brentwoods’ friends, the Shermans, and made day trips to Bethesda. Then I could really start to recover. I’d lost major poundage on rubber chicken and half a beef patty. Momma Brentwood and Mrs. Sherman took turns ensuring that I gained all that weight back fast. They competed to see who could get me to pig out more. Mrs. Sherman was Korean and that’s when I started my lifelong interest in ethnic foods. Her winter kimchee was awesome and her bulgoki was nearly as good as manna.
But on another subject of food. At that time, you wouldn’t guess who had the commissary contract for supplying condiments in Navy cafeterias. That’s right. Heinz. Not only did every single bottle of ketchup have “57” on it, every single damned ketchup packet had a “57” on it! There were fricking 57s everywhere. It was driving me nuts!
Fifty-seven Chevy? Maybe it had to do with a ’57 Chevy. I kept my eye out for cars that might have been made in 1957. Could it be part of a street address? 57th Street maybe?
At one point in therapy, I thought they were going to give me fifty-seven reps. Could this be it? Was this the moment the sign would appear?
But, no, they went from fifty-six to fifty-eight…
I finally gave up looking. It was just too exhausting. I also never mentioned the vision, dream, near-death experience or whatever to anyone but priests and then only under the vow of confession. I did begin the process of conversion to the Catholic Church. If I’d met a saint, I figured might as well go with the main church that believed in them. At one point, one of the priests whom I was briefing in on the situation pointed out, reluctantly but honestly, that Episcopalians were saint oriented and I could have talked to the first Episcopalian priest about it.
Eh. Catholic light. Twice the ceremony, half the guilt. I’ll stick with the Holy Mother. Even if it is, occasionally, a Mother.
I never went back to the One-Eight. I’d been permanently transferred to the Detachment of Patients at Quantico. Honeybear and all my gear was transferred up. I didn’t have to have a billet so, with the Sherman’s permission, I moved into their basement, pulling DC BAQ which was way more than the rent they charged me, while I continued rehab. I had to show up for a formation once a week in uniform. I was always neat as a pin. Hobbling on crutches gave way to using a cane and a major limp.
My confirmation in the Catholic Church was on the same day as my medical review board. I didn’t have to “stand” the review. It was on paper only. So I confirmed that I wished to be a Catholic, having already been baptized, stood first communion, first confession (that was long) and all the rest. I’d reviewed all the saints that were worth reviewing. I came to the conclusion that although I might or might not have met Saint Peter, I really wasn’t into the whole martyr thing. I liked Pete, don’t get me wrong. But I was a warrior at heart. Not the best approach to Christianity but it was who I was. So I finally settled on Saint Michael the Archangel. Guy who had tossed Satan’s ass in the clink. Flaming sword, kicking ass. Worked for me.
Had no idea, then, how appropriate the choice would be. I’ve anathemized more demons than Agent Franks.
The results of the medical review board came down a week later. My right thigh bone had basically been put back together with rigger tape and baling wire. There was no way it was going to support the rigors of being a line infantryman. I would have a permanent limp and all sorts of other issues.
Like, they thought, only seventy percent use of my right arm for life. Hah. When I went in for an eval and they found my right arm stronger and more flexible than my last physical before the bombing they called it “a minor miracle.” Try lots and lots of workouts. After the kappa I had to throw away all my old X-rays lest doctors completely freak out. The kappa was a miracle.
Anyway, Infantry was out. If I chose, at that time, to re-up for a less strenuous MOS I could continue to be a Marine. But nothing involving direct combat. No tanker, no amtrack crewman. Nada. So I started researching MOS.
The Marine MOS field 5700 referred to chemical, biological and nuclear fields. A sign! I knew I had the brains for it. There was a problem. My ASVAB. It wasn’t that I couldn’t ask to retake some tests. It was that if I suddenly went from a perfect 100 (mediocre, perfect for infantry) to the 150 minimum for some of those fields…It would be pretty clear I’d deliberately boned the first test. Which, by the way, was a “federal offense.”
So they came back and offered me continuing service on reenlistment; the only fields open were cook and clerk.
Not a sign. At least not one clear enough for me to sit behind a desk and be a REMF for the next seventeen years.
At 1537 hours, June 12th, 1984, pretty close to three years after my enlistment, I put most of my worldly belongings in the trunk of Honeybear, went to the final out-process station at Quantico and was formally retired (medical) from the Marine Corps with thirty percent disability.
Mr. Brentwood’s words at our first real meeting came back to me.
“Do you have any idea what you want to do with your life, son?”
Not a clue. I was just hoping for a sign.