Chief Murray and I stood, looking at the specially equipped and painted Boeing 707, until Kissinger, Haldeman and Ehrlichman disappeared into its side door. The plane was called Air Force One when Nixon was aboard it, but usually he flew a newer 707. The crew on the tarmac called the plane Sam Twenty-Six, for unknown reasons.
“Henceforth, whenever Kissinger needs to be driven somewhere, you get to do the driving,” Murray said to me. His cigarette lay burning itself out on hot the concrete under our feet. I wondered, idly, if it might not ignite stray fumes and blow us all to hell. There must have been ten ‘no smoking’ signs visible, but Murray didn’t seem to care, and nobody confronted him about it.
I drove the big limo back to San Clemente at ninety miles per hour. There was no traffic, to speak of, on I-5 at off hours. Murray stayed silent in the passenger seat, unmoved by the high speed, smoking one cigarette after another. I wanted to ask my laconic passenger a ton of questions but could not work up the courage. He had let on that my Beach Patrol job was good for a year, funded by a Congressional earmark to the Department of Justice. It had to be redone at the end of that year, if it was to be redone. Amy called the job a phony exercise invented by phony people for phony purposes. The ‘Three-P’ job, it had become.
In truth, I did not patrol the compound area much at all. There was nothing to do along the short stretch of sand, except harass an occasional surfer, watch oblivious lovers or chase border crossers further North. I preferred to run up and down the beaches of San Clemente in the super-silent, near invisible Bronco. Those beaches had real people doing real things. It was also fun to patrol the streets on occasion, although I stayed away from car stops. The California Highway Patrol, termed as ‘Chippies’ by the local cops, had actually sent a car to inform me, specifically, that I was not to work the interstate highway at all. That would be ‘poaching,’ and it was not to be tolerated. Ben Williams, head of Secret Service had received a letter to that effect, as well. I had been called in. I listened to the lecture by the Chippies, then William’s brief nod, before I made any comment.
“The Bronco can’t even make it up to the minimum speed required to be legal on the freeway,” I said. “How the hell am I going to go out and catch speeders?” The Chippies ignored me, examining the Bronco from bumper to bumper, as if it was some classic car on display at a fair. Finally, seemingly satisfied, the tall men had climbed into their Mercury-Maurader Black and White and driven away. I smiled to myself when I noted that the Marine on duty at the gate made them show their wallet identification cards before he would let them out.
“You know what they really wanted?” Williams said, as we stood looking at the back of their patrol car, as it sat waiting to be let out. I shook my head, glancing at the man’s profile. He reminded me, uncomfortably, of ‘Howling Jack Taylor’ on the Marine Base. I said nothing, however.
“They wanted a chance to see the operations here so they could tell all of their buddies that they were on the inside of the compound command center.” He walked back through the door of the Coast Guard station, but stopped and turned before actually entering. “You tell them nothing. Not a damn thing, or I’ll have your ass. And that goes for Murray and the locals, your new long lost friends, as well.” I stood looking at him, making sure I wore no expression. I was not about to give him the benefit of any answer at all, unless I was ordered to. But I wasn’t. He simply turned, closed the door, and was gone.
I drove down, through San Clemente, to the base of the long pier. The drive was uneventful. It was Sunday afternoon, so there were plenty of people about, particularly at “T” Street, an area of sand that stuck out into the ocean about a quarter mile South of the pier. A high overpass ran from the cliff edge above the railroad tracks, and then directly down to the beautiful beach. Not only was it a great beach area, but there was ample parking along the side streets of the neighborhood atop the cliff. I drove the Bronco to “T” Street, through the crowds of beach goers, all moving out of the way of my vehicle. I had learned to have the radio on ‘outside speaker’ for such work. I could reach over, click the handset of the Motorola, and make a squawk come from the speaker. It was sufficient to get people to notice, and then move out of the way. The driving was fun, although watching for little children was a challenge. My tires were so big and soft though, I wondered if they would actually hurt a child if I did run over one. I didn’t want to find out the answer to that question, however.
I drove back to the pier. Ever so slowly, I worked the front tires of the Bronco over the edge of asphalt that separated the sand from the pier pad. First gear was really low so the small truck could move inches at a time, but with great power. I stopped, once I got up on the flat pad. People surged about, parting like moving water around the Bronco. They ignored it, and me, as if we were merely fixtures of the pier structure itself. I looked over at a low flat building built out onto the sand. It had a large clock tower sticking out of the top of it. I checked my watch. The clock was accurate. The building was brown, with the clock tower sticking up out of it. That was made of natural rock. The only bright color visible was yellow. Huge yellow letters were painted across the beach side of the building. They read ‘SCLG,’ which I knew stood for San Clement Life Guards.
I eased the Bronco onto the big flat parking area located behind the Headquarters building. The lifeguards had upward thrusting watch towers, unevenly spaced, up and down all the beaches I patrolled, with the exception of the area in front of the Western White House Compound. I thought I might just as well get acquainted with the lifeguard organization responsible for Marine Safetyin the areas I patrolled.
I shut my vehicle down, but left the ignition key on, with the public address speaker engaged, so the radios could be heard if I got a call. I had tried, at first, reporting my position to Scruggs all the time, like the other ‘regular’ units, but soon gave up. Scruggs didn’t care. I never got a call and he never responded to my position or activity reports. The Secret Service radio was even stranger. There was never any sound from it. I assumed the frequency to be totally private.
I stepped through the back door of the big building and entered a different world. The building was mostly a shed for huge pieces of beach equipment. I had seen the sand cleaning machines but had not known where they were stored. I squatted down to examine one of them, to see how it worked. A rough mesh lined the bottom of the thing, I saw, but then was interrupted.
“Can I help you?” a voice right behind me said, flatly.
I jumped up and around.
“Just looking,” I replied, a bit embarrassed. The man in front of me was tall, I noted, much taller than my mere five foot nine inches. He was well built and had a thin mustache, like Errol Flynn. An unkempt shock of black hair ran across the top of his forehead, thinning slightly. I guessed him to be about forty years old. He wore a short sleeve khaki uniform not dissimilar from the one I had designed for myself. It was adorned with sliver lieutenant’s bars on each collar. A pang of regret went through me. I would never wear those bars, which I had so secretly coveted, while I was still in the Corps.
“Those screens shouldn’t be on those machines. The city crew screwed them on in order to recover change from the sand. I’ll bet they clear three or four hundred dollars a day that way.” He said the words with derision, as if culling the lost change from city sands was some sort of evil felony. I shook my head, not knowing what else to do in reply.
I had caught the inflection of his voice right away. There was something not right about it. By the time he finished talking about the beach machines I had fully pinpointed the oddness. The man had a lisp. A lisp so notable that homosexuality was instantly called into the social equation, at least to a former Marine like me.
“Morrison Myers,” he said, with a great infectious smile. He held out his huge right hand. I took it. We shook. There was no limpness in his grip, I noted,
to my relief.
“I was wondering when you’d stop by to visit. I’m second in command to the Chief here. He said we’d have to share the beach with you, although nobody seems to know exactly what you’re doing here.” He stopped talking, the smile remaining on his face, however, at least for a few seconds. We stared at one another for a few moments, until it became obvious that I wasn’t going to say anything.
“Let me guess,” he said. I tried not to allow any expression to come to my face when the word ‘guess’ came out ‘geth.’ I just waited. “You’re part of that new contingent out there,” he waved toward the South, and San Onofre Beach, with his left hand, although his eyes never left my face. “You have that Bronco everyone’s talking about, a new uniform and….nothing whatever to do.” The last four words had been delayed a good five seconds before he delivered them.
I laughed out loud.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” I asked, but did not wait for an answer.
“Nobody knows what I’m supposed to do, although everyone I run into seems to feel that I shouldn’t do anything that has anything to do with them or their operations. Not that they’ll say that, or much else.”
I had been surprised by the man’s penetrating intellect and the directness of his presentation. Gay or not gay, the man was the first person in uniform who seemed to have caught on to the fact that my role was more than just unusual.
No one had spoken to me so directly, except maybe Ehrlichman or Amy, since I had been appointed to be the San Clemente Beach Patrol.
We walked together slowly through the building, with Myers giving out information about all manner of Marine Safety equipment and space. I just listened, and tried to take it all in. We ended up in his office, he behind his desk, his back to the breaking waves visible through huge picture windows, and I sat in a chair facing him, enjoying the view.
Three men burst through the open office door. I turned to look at them. They were actually little more than very large boys, I noted. They wore red lifeguard swimsuits and matching “T” shirts, with the yellow SCLG initials emblazoned on their chests. ‘Rowdy’ was a word I would later use to describe them to Amy. Their immediate injection of loud boisterous laughter brought me out of my chair, to stand facing them. They ignored me completely, instead walking right up to the front of Myer’s desk and leaning forward. They laughed again. Myers stared at them with a deadpan expression, but did nothing about their noisy incursion. Two of the boys sat in the available chairs, one of which I had just vacated. They sprawled there.
“What’s the haps, Morri?” one of them said, then they all laughed again. Myer’s face grew red.
“It’s Lieutenant, to you,” he said, his voice menacing, but his lisp taking away any macho effect he attempted to transmit.
“Yeth thir, Lieutenant thir,” the largest boy, the one standing, said. His hand snapped up to perform a crooked salute when he said the words. He then stood at mock attention, his eyes staring straight out into the incoming waves.
I almost choked. I didn’t know whether to say something supporting the Lieutenant or laugh. It was a tragically funny scene. I recalled my own recent stint as a lieutenant in the Marine Corps. If three of my men had pulled such a stunt they would have first been humbled by a fifty mile forced march, and then led off to court martial.
The big lfeguard fell from a position of attention to one of relaxed indolence, half sitting on the front edge of the lieutenant’s desk. He turned to me.
“Who’s the Gestapo agent?” he asked, to no one in particular, then brought his attention back to Myers. He flicked his right thumb toward me.
I remained still, watching Myers. And then I was surprised. His anger somehow had turned off like a spigot of water. Instead of exploding physically at the guards, he became meek, to the point of smiling at them, as if they were merely children acting up.
“This is the officer attached to the Western White House Detail, out at Cotton’s Point.” Myers extended one hand out toward me, then left it hanging in the air, as if some fellowship or partnership existed between us. The gesture made me uncomfortable, but the outrageous behavior of the three guards held me to silence. The two sitting guards arose from their seats to stand by the larger of them. All of them were larger than me. I felt like I had fallen in among some association of lifeguard giants.
The three men stared at me, their expressions satirical, their smiles insincere.
No one said anything for a moment, until Myers spoke.
“These are some of my guards,” he said, gesturing toward the boys. “Billy Morrel, Charley Mac, and Joe Marion.” He pointed from one to the other as he spoke their names. I reached out my right hand toward the middle one, Charlie Mac. He took my hand. He pressed hard, but I had been half-prepared for such a move. I squeezed back, to hold my own, which I did. I had not worked out every day for three years for nothing. The hospital surgeries, and time, had effected my walk, not my grip. We stood there for thirty seconds before Charley
gave up. We both stepped back, our faces smiling but not our eyes.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Charley’s eyes flicked down to my badge, then back and forth to the shoulder patches on my short sleeve shirt.
“Looks like another of those little San Clemente cops to me….” he said, his voice trailing away, but his sinuous challenging tone was unmistakable. I did not know how to answer. It was like being cast way back to a school ground confrontation, except we were all grown men. My mind raced for a response.
Vietnam flashed into my mind. The images reared up, then raced before me. The dead. The dying. My responsibility. My lack of action. My over-reaction.
I shook my head, ever so slightly, to clear my head. Without being aware of it, I adjusted my body, drawing my right shoulder back, exposing only the left, less injured side of my torso toward them. I was unaware that my right hand had languidly moved up to gently clasp the handle of my .44 Magnum. My expression had gone totally blank. I had no message to transmit. I merely waited.
One of the guards read something into my lack of expression, and the unrevealing slight adjustments I had made. His aggressive expression changed to an open smile. He stepped between the other two boys.
“Ah, I’m Billy,” he said, then went on. “We’re just messing with you. Welcome to the lifeguard Headquarters.” I took his hand in mine, guardedly, but the handshake was real this time.
“Don’t mind Charlie here, he’s the smartest one of us all, and Joe here, well, he drinks too much, but he’s funny as hell and his dog makes up for all the rest.”
I looked around for a dog, but didn’t see one. The three guards then left as they had come in, laughing, punching one another, and bouncing off the walls.
I nodded at Myers, who nodded back. He turned away to look over at the base of the pier out of his side window. I knew I had been dismissed.
I sat outside in the Bronco with the engine running. I thought about what I had just experienced. What would I tell Amy? That the lifeguards were run by some strange giant of a lisping faggot, while the men he commanded might better be named Huey, Duey, and Luey? I drove back to the base of the pier, so as to be among more normal humans.
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Showing posts with label San Clemente. Show all posts
Showing posts with label San Clemente. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
San Clemente, Chapter IV, "Beach Patrol"
Chief Murray shook my hand once again. I knew he was done with me, but I had more questions. I did not want to go home again with inadequate answers, much less no answers at all. "Where do I work?" I asked, standing at the open door. The Chief shrugged. "They don't talk much down there." He waived one hand in the general direction of the South end of town, when he said the words. "And a uniform?" I went on, but he just shook his head again. I looked at the man, who seemed so commanding and sure of himself, yet had no answers at all. "What about pay? How much does a Patrolman III earn?" But it was the same. He pointed South. I was going to have to get my information from La Casa Romantica, or whatever the hell they were calling it. I turned to leave.
"Here, you'll need these," he said, almost as an afterthought. A set of keys came at me, thrown from his left hand. I caught them before they hit the wall next to me. I examined them. They were Ford keys. Chief Murray walked over to the long narrow side window which looked out on the back parking lot of the station. He pointed at a sand colored vehicle. "You'll be using that." I followed his pointing finger. A Ford Bronco sat alone at the corner of the lot. It was a strange looking Bronco, however. It didn't have regular tires. Instead it had huge fat things at each corner. They stuck out a good six inches from the sides of the vehicle. The fenders had been rough cut to fit them. The flared parts that had been added were obviously cut from raw aluminum sheeting, then hung onto the remains of the regular fenders with little round rivets.
"She's brand spankin' new. Paid for by U.S. Government dollars. She's got duals, with three mufflers on each side. Silent as death in the sand. Got a three-oh-two V8 under the hood, and even air-conditioning. I'd give my left tit to own her myself." Murray stared at the vehicle he had so lovingly described. I looked at it. It was cool. There was no question about that. But it was also just a small truck. I wasn't in love with its appearance. I peered at the driver's side door. There was black lettering arced across it. "What's the San Clemente Beach Patrol?" I asked the Chief. "That's you," he said, grinning one of his engaging smiles, "and whoever wants to ride with you." I didn't understand what he meant by that, but I had bigger questions I had to get answered, and there was only one place I could ask them.
I went back out front where Scruggs operated the radios. I stood at the counter, as he finished some interaction with his desk microphone. "Come back here," he said, "you're an officer here. Out front is for our customers." He laughed after he said 'customers.' I presumed the word usage to be police humor. There were two doors to the back entry. I found them without help. Scruggs walked over to an ancient manual typewriter and sat down. He rolled a blank card into the machine, then typed letters onto it from a file next to him. I couldn't see what was in the file. Then he stopped. "What do you want to be?" he said, his hands poised over the keys. "Huh?" was all I could manage. "I mean, like, patrolman, beach patrol officer, reserve, special agent, or what? The Chief told me you'd know what to put in here." I looked at the little nome of a man, to see if I could detect more of his arcane sense of humor coming out, but I found none. "Ah, 'Reserve Patrolman' will be just fine. He typed. He pulled the finished card out. "I'll have the Chief sign it later. You can have it tomorrow morning." I shrugged. I walked out through the doors to the front of the building. As I exited the area before the counter I heard Scruggs yell. "Hey, welcome to the farce." I smiled back, then waved.
I drove the Volks around to the back lot. I got out, opened the Bronco with the keys Murray had given me. The Bronco was equipped with a Motorola police radio, full emergency light controls, and, ominously, a Remington twelve gauge pump shotgun. The gun was vertical, with its stock mounted down into the footwell on the passenger side. It was locked with a latch system. I looked at the lock. It took a tiny key. I checked the car key ring. There was a tiny key on the chain. I sighed. I was armed and dangerous once I got in the vehicle. But I didn't get in. I was wearing my Marine Officer Class A Green uniform. It just didn't seem right to drive the Bronco wearing it. I got back into the Volks, and headed for the South of town.
I entered the small road which led to the Cotton Estate gate. A full corporal was on duty, as opposed to the Lance Corporal of the day before. "Good Morning, Corporal, I said, easily, after rolling to a stop. I pulled out, then steadied, my new STAFF I.D. card. The Corporal took the card from my hand, then carefully read everything on it. I was impressed. "Thank you, sir," he finally said, handing the card back, then snapping off a crisp salute. I prepared to proceed, shifting the Volks into first gear, until I heard a horse whisper. The whisper said, "button your blouse before going in there, sir." I looked at the Corporal, but he stood as before, staring over the top of my car, still holding the salute. I frowned. The Marine was correct in fact, if not in etiquette. I followed his snide but wise direction and buttoned the front of my blouse up before proceeding.
"Two weeks, and a wake-up," I said to myself, as I eased down the road to park near the door that was not a real door. I knocked, as before. A Secret Service Agent, stood, as before, when the door had moved aside. He motioned with his head for me to proceed down the hall, the spring loaded wire leading up to his ear, stretching taut, then bouncing back when he had finished with the movement. My regulation leather heels made solid clicking sounds as I walked the surface of the Spanish-tiled hall. The great room was the same, except I noted two new tables set near the long row of windows, which faced toward the surf line. A man sat in each chair, facing out. Each had a hot steaming mug next to him. One was easy to identify from his hair color and cut. It was Haldeman. Neither man seemed to notice my presence. I stopped, waited, then walked next to Haldeman's table and stood there. They watched the surf. So I watched the surf. An offshore wind made the waves appear larger than they really were. The waves stood higher, and held their shape longer, because of it. White spume blew back from the edge of each wave, just before it folded over and broke. It was hypnotic to watch. A morning red sun behind the waves gave the scene a surreal 'moving scenery' kind of effect.
"This is Erlichman," H.R. said. "He handles domestic." Haldeman waved toward the man next to him, extending a small tea cup in the air. He held the cup by the lip, with thumb and index finger. I noted the full extension of his stiff little finger sticking out from the side of the cup. No Marine on earth would ever hold a cup in that manner, I knew, not, at least, where another Marine might see him.
"Lose the uniform," Erlichman said. I puzzled over the order for a moment, before responding. "Ah, what should I wear, then?" I asked, truly curious. "You can wear one of those khaki get-ups they wear around here, or go to a uniform shop and pick one out." Erlichman drank from his own tea cup when he was finished talking. I gaped. I did not know how to handle what I'd been told. I didn't even know what a uniform shop was, much less where it might be. I looked at the man, drinking his tea, and watching the surf line. He was as serious as H.R., I decided, but his long stringy black hair, seemingly unwashed and unkempt, gave him a disturbingly seedy appearance. I was uncomfortable with Haldeman, I realized suddenly, but I plainly did not like Erlichman.
"No, forget that," Erlichman suddenly said, turning to look at me. His eyes were dark and intense. I felt like he had instantly caught the distaste I felt for him. Caught it and didn't care. "You'll be Opcon to the local police here, so make yourself look like one of them. Do whatever they tell you to do when we're not telling you what to do." He stopped then, and began to laugh out loud. Haldeman joined in the laughter. I looked at both men. I didn't get the humor. I had been more comfortable with Scruggs basal humor, although I had not found it very funny either. While I waited, I remembered Amy's criticism of my poor inquisitor skills.
"What is it you want me to do?" I asked, after they had stopped laughing. Haldeman put his tea cup back onto its saucer with an audible 'clink.' He had fallen silent and contemplative again, watching the surf. I waited. "Until the Marines let you go, just show up every day," he said, then went on, "Check out the security system. Get to know and understand it. Get to know the people around here, except the Secret Service guys, they're not people. Get to know the beach. Arrest some aliens. They're all we get going by here. Look at some live sex. We get some of that too. Get familiar with all the procedures of the police agencies around here. Murray is sympatico." When he finished with the last, both he and Erlichman looked at one another, then nodded to one another. I felt dismissed, but I could not go home without having one other question answered. "Do I get paid? If I do, then how much?" There was another silence. "A thousand a month, I think," Erlichman said. "Check with somebody else. We don't get into those things." The two men began to talk to each other in low tones. I did not have to be told to leave.
A thousand a month was five hundred a month more than I made as a Marine Lieutenant. I didn't know about benefits, or anything further. But a thousand alone would guarantee me a little more access to the areas above Amy's darkened pantyhose line, and that made me smile. I walked back down the hallway with a Secret Service agent at my side. "What, exactly, is my job here?" I asked him. He shook his head. "i don't know. The Coast Guard station out back has some offices in it though. My boss is over there, and the head of the U.S. Marshalls. Check with them. I'm sure they'll want to know what you're up to." I went though the door, and out to my Volks. A lot of people seemed to be interested in what I was doing. I was interested in what I was doing. I just had no idea at all what it really was, or why.
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"Here, you'll need these," he said, almost as an afterthought. A set of keys came at me, thrown from his left hand. I caught them before they hit the wall next to me. I examined them. They were Ford keys. Chief Murray walked over to the long narrow side window which looked out on the back parking lot of the station. He pointed at a sand colored vehicle. "You'll be using that." I followed his pointing finger. A Ford Bronco sat alone at the corner of the lot. It was a strange looking Bronco, however. It didn't have regular tires. Instead it had huge fat things at each corner. They stuck out a good six inches from the sides of the vehicle. The fenders had been rough cut to fit them. The flared parts that had been added were obviously cut from raw aluminum sheeting, then hung onto the remains of the regular fenders with little round rivets.
"She's brand spankin' new. Paid for by U.S. Government dollars. She's got duals, with three mufflers on each side. Silent as death in the sand. Got a three-oh-two V8 under the hood, and even air-conditioning. I'd give my left tit to own her myself." Murray stared at the vehicle he had so lovingly described. I looked at it. It was cool. There was no question about that. But it was also just a small truck. I wasn't in love with its appearance. I peered at the driver's side door. There was black lettering arced across it. "What's the San Clemente Beach Patrol?" I asked the Chief. "That's you," he said, grinning one of his engaging smiles, "and whoever wants to ride with you." I didn't understand what he meant by that, but I had bigger questions I had to get answered, and there was only one place I could ask them.
I went back out front where Scruggs operated the radios. I stood at the counter, as he finished some interaction with his desk microphone. "Come back here," he said, "you're an officer here. Out front is for our customers." He laughed after he said 'customers.' I presumed the word usage to be police humor. There were two doors to the back entry. I found them without help. Scruggs walked over to an ancient manual typewriter and sat down. He rolled a blank card into the machine, then typed letters onto it from a file next to him. I couldn't see what was in the file. Then he stopped. "What do you want to be?" he said, his hands poised over the keys. "Huh?" was all I could manage. "I mean, like, patrolman, beach patrol officer, reserve, special agent, or what? The Chief told me you'd know what to put in here." I looked at the little nome of a man, to see if I could detect more of his arcane sense of humor coming out, but I found none. "Ah, 'Reserve Patrolman' will be just fine. He typed. He pulled the finished card out. "I'll have the Chief sign it later. You can have it tomorrow morning." I shrugged. I walked out through the doors to the front of the building. As I exited the area before the counter I heard Scruggs yell. "Hey, welcome to the farce." I smiled back, then waved.
I drove the Volks around to the back lot. I got out, opened the Bronco with the keys Murray had given me. The Bronco was equipped with a Motorola police radio, full emergency light controls, and, ominously, a Remington twelve gauge pump shotgun. The gun was vertical, with its stock mounted down into the footwell on the passenger side. It was locked with a latch system. I looked at the lock. It took a tiny key. I checked the car key ring. There was a tiny key on the chain. I sighed. I was armed and dangerous once I got in the vehicle. But I didn't get in. I was wearing my Marine Officer Class A Green uniform. It just didn't seem right to drive the Bronco wearing it. I got back into the Volks, and headed for the South of town.
I entered the small road which led to the Cotton Estate gate. A full corporal was on duty, as opposed to the Lance Corporal of the day before. "Good Morning, Corporal, I said, easily, after rolling to a stop. I pulled out, then steadied, my new STAFF I.D. card. The Corporal took the card from my hand, then carefully read everything on it. I was impressed. "Thank you, sir," he finally said, handing the card back, then snapping off a crisp salute. I prepared to proceed, shifting the Volks into first gear, until I heard a horse whisper. The whisper said, "button your blouse before going in there, sir." I looked at the Corporal, but he stood as before, staring over the top of my car, still holding the salute. I frowned. The Marine was correct in fact, if not in etiquette. I followed his snide but wise direction and buttoned the front of my blouse up before proceeding.
"Two weeks, and a wake-up," I said to myself, as I eased down the road to park near the door that was not a real door. I knocked, as before. A Secret Service Agent, stood, as before, when the door had moved aside. He motioned with his head for me to proceed down the hall, the spring loaded wire leading up to his ear, stretching taut, then bouncing back when he had finished with the movement. My regulation leather heels made solid clicking sounds as I walked the surface of the Spanish-tiled hall. The great room was the same, except I noted two new tables set near the long row of windows, which faced toward the surf line. A man sat in each chair, facing out. Each had a hot steaming mug next to him. One was easy to identify from his hair color and cut. It was Haldeman. Neither man seemed to notice my presence. I stopped, waited, then walked next to Haldeman's table and stood there. They watched the surf. So I watched the surf. An offshore wind made the waves appear larger than they really were. The waves stood higher, and held their shape longer, because of it. White spume blew back from the edge of each wave, just before it folded over and broke. It was hypnotic to watch. A morning red sun behind the waves gave the scene a surreal 'moving scenery' kind of effect.
"This is Erlichman," H.R. said. "He handles domestic." Haldeman waved toward the man next to him, extending a small tea cup in the air. He held the cup by the lip, with thumb and index finger. I noted the full extension of his stiff little finger sticking out from the side of the cup. No Marine on earth would ever hold a cup in that manner, I knew, not, at least, where another Marine might see him.
"Lose the uniform," Erlichman said. I puzzled over the order for a moment, before responding. "Ah, what should I wear, then?" I asked, truly curious. "You can wear one of those khaki get-ups they wear around here, or go to a uniform shop and pick one out." Erlichman drank from his own tea cup when he was finished talking. I gaped. I did not know how to handle what I'd been told. I didn't even know what a uniform shop was, much less where it might be. I looked at the man, drinking his tea, and watching the surf line. He was as serious as H.R., I decided, but his long stringy black hair, seemingly unwashed and unkempt, gave him a disturbingly seedy appearance. I was uncomfortable with Haldeman, I realized suddenly, but I plainly did not like Erlichman.
"No, forget that," Erlichman suddenly said, turning to look at me. His eyes were dark and intense. I felt like he had instantly caught the distaste I felt for him. Caught it and didn't care. "You'll be Opcon to the local police here, so make yourself look like one of them. Do whatever they tell you to do when we're not telling you what to do." He stopped then, and began to laugh out loud. Haldeman joined in the laughter. I looked at both men. I didn't get the humor. I had been more comfortable with Scruggs basal humor, although I had not found it very funny either. While I waited, I remembered Amy's criticism of my poor inquisitor skills.
"What is it you want me to do?" I asked, after they had stopped laughing. Haldeman put his tea cup back onto its saucer with an audible 'clink.' He had fallen silent and contemplative again, watching the surf. I waited. "Until the Marines let you go, just show up every day," he said, then went on, "Check out the security system. Get to know and understand it. Get to know the people around here, except the Secret Service guys, they're not people. Get to know the beach. Arrest some aliens. They're all we get going by here. Look at some live sex. We get some of that too. Get familiar with all the procedures of the police agencies around here. Murray is sympatico." When he finished with the last, both he and Erlichman looked at one another, then nodded to one another. I felt dismissed, but I could not go home without having one other question answered. "Do I get paid? If I do, then how much?" There was another silence. "A thousand a month, I think," Erlichman said. "Check with somebody else. We don't get into those things." The two men began to talk to each other in low tones. I did not have to be told to leave.
A thousand a month was five hundred a month more than I made as a Marine Lieutenant. I didn't know about benefits, or anything further. But a thousand alone would guarantee me a little more access to the areas above Amy's darkened pantyhose line, and that made me smile. I walked back down the hallway with a Secret Service agent at my side. "What, exactly, is my job here?" I asked him. He shook his head. "i don't know. The Coast Guard station out back has some offices in it though. My boss is over there, and the head of the U.S. Marshalls. Check with them. I'm sure they'll want to know what you're up to." I went though the door, and out to my Volks. A lot of people seemed to be interested in what I was doing. I was interested in what I was doing. I just had no idea at all what it really was, or why.
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Wednesday, April 8, 2009
San Clemente, "Chapter III, "Losing My Religion"
I left the estate through the door I had come in. The door that was really made to be part of a bank vault, rather than an an old Spanish hacienda. I drove back to the sawhorse. The Lance Corporal was there, but he didn't move the barrier. Instead he walked around to my open window. "Here is your I.D. card, sir," he said, then snapped another perfect salute at me. He moved the sawhorse. I put the new card in my front pocket, then headed the Volks toward home. I realized that I did not have to make the thirty-three mile trip, one way, to the 1st CAG anymore. My apartment was only two miles from the Cotton Estate. I might be fueling up once a month instead of twice a week. I smiled at the thought, hoping that my wife, Amy, would be happy with that part of our new situation. Amy was Irish, second generation, but Irish to the roots of her nearly black, and full, head of hair. I got home, and limped, as quickly as I could, up the stairs to our small abode. I was smiling. I had prospects.
"So, let's see if I have this straight," Amy said, her expression of the words holding out no hope for a question mark. "You now work for this blond guy, H.R. Haldeman, who, supposedly, works as an advisor to the President of the United States. That would be Richard Milhous Nixon. You have this new I.D. card, which tells us that you are "STAFF," whatever that is." She paced before him, up and down the small expanse of their living room floor, while she talked and thought. The new Military Style but not military identification card was in her right hand as she moved. I'd explained everything I knew, from my seat on our couch, but agitation had set into her before I'd finished. She had to move. It irritated me, to have her tower over me, but it would look ridiculous for both of them to pace about together, so I stayed seated.
"And Colonel Howling Jack Taylor, your commanding officer, knows nothing, and can't even ask you about any of this?" She might have paused, at that point, to get an answer, but she didn't. She paced some more. "And then there is you. You didn't bother to ask anyone what you would be doing? Where you would be doing it? Or why?" The sound of her deep sigh of disappointment would have been heard in the adjoining apartment, the walls of the one bedroom place were that thin, except it was daytime and nobody was there. Amy was the only female in the complex who was a housewife, and it was mid-day. Finally, she paused in her moving routine. She slapped the thick plastic card down onto the top of their cheap coffee table, then folded her arms facing him. Her normally smooth forehead was deeply furrowed. Her beautiful brown eyebrows were pulled together so close that the seemed to form one continuous line.
"Are you a complete and total idiot?" she asked, dead serious. Her tone was flat and level. I nodded, not being able to think of anything to say at all. I knew I should have asked questions of everyone, but I had not. I was a Marine. I knew how to take orders. And that's what I had done. I still had several weeks to serve, and although the Marine Corps and I had been going in different directions from the time I was wounded, I would serve out my time as a real Marine. And not a Marine like either of the 'Homo Vomitus' cretins I worked with at the CAG. But Amy gave me pause to think.
The Cotton Estate had only been rumored to have been sold to Nixon. There had been no confirmation, either in the local paper, or on television. Word had simply been bandied about the community, and mostly with negative connotations. San Clemente was a small Spanish town. It was mostly Democratic. It's close proximity to Camp Pendleton Marine Base was a constant source of unhappiness, if not outright distaste, for almost all of it's citizens. The livid scars of a continuing lost war were ever present, and directly attributable, to the military personnel who constantly circulated in, and around, the town.
"And what about pay?" Amy asked. "We have nothing. And what about after they dump you out of the Corps? Benefits? Transportation? Medical help for your healing?" She had begun pacing as she had started talking, firing out the short questions like shots out of a semi-auto rifle. I knew she was still upset by the medical board decision. I was going to be discharged with Zero percent disability. I was going to be determined to be too disabled to be a Marine, but not disabled enough to get any money. Amy called it a 'typical' Marine discharge, to their few friends, who were mostly Marines, or dependents of Marines. I had not thought about the discharge or the money when I had stood, looking out at the breaking surf, with the strange flat-topped man.
"Why you?" she said, "You're a mess, physically and mentally. You can't walk right and you have that thing open along your stomach," she waved her hand at me, as she paced. "Or is this a reward for your medals, I mean, except that Purple Heart one....I guess it would be maybe a punishment for getting that one, since your beloved Corps does not seem to care for injured Marines, much at all." She sat down on the couch next to me, but they didn't touch. "I don't get it," she said, at last. Taking a pack of Kent filtered cigarettes from the table, she produced a lighter and lit one of them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. I had never smoked, but I also never commented on her habit. I liked it. It was somehow meaningful pleasant to our relationship. She handled the slender white tubes in a way that added to her, already considerable, sexuality. Her short blue skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh. She looked at me looking, then blew smoke in my direction and crossed her legs.
"I suppose they told you that you couldn't tell me anything either," she said, then flicked a small piece of tobacco from her lip with her free hand. I looked down at the dark band, which indicated the top-most part of her pantyhose. It was peaking from under the slanted edge of her skirt. "Actually, nobody said anything about you at all. They said little about anything. I'm supposed to go in tomorrow and do what they tell me, I guess. But, I'll ask about the money, and the other stuff. I can't imagine that they are doing this just to occupy me for my last couple of weeks in the Corps." I brightened with my own words. I had thought, until turning the situation over in my mind, that I would simply serve out my time in the strange old Spanish villa. The guard had called it 'Casa Pacifica.' The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a new opportunity, however. Aside from the Lance Corporal, serving as a gate guard, there did not seem to be much for a Marine Lieutenant to do there.
Amy's anger faded, as the afternoon waned. A Manhatten before dinner helped even more. I sat up by myself until late in the evening, wondering about different details of the strange day I had just experienced. Amy had gone down early, and there had been no opportunity to enjoy anything she possessed, above the darkened pantyhose line, I had gazed upon earlier. Finally I sighed, went upstairs, and crawled into bed.
I awakened just before first light, as was my habit. I carefully displaced myself from the bed, so as not to wake Amy, as I did every day. As with every other day, I failed. I had realized early on that if I ever had an affair which ran late into the night, I would not be sneaking under the covers without my wife waking. She had detectors. Better than the sonic stuff we had used 'in country.'
"Are you awake?" she asked, unnecessarily, looking at me with one eye, her head sunk deeply into her pillow. "Yeah," I murmured in response, just like every other morning. She said no more, as I went through my morning regimen to prepare for work. Showered, shaved, shined and fully dressed, except for my tight green Class A uniform blouse, I watched the coffee perk up and down, time after time, in the top glass of our small stainless coffee pot. Amy came down, wearing a fluffy cream robe and huge, ridiculous, bathroom slippers. The phone on the wall between us rang. I looked at it, as did she. Both of us frowned. The phone never rang in the morning, especially not before seven a.m. I picked it up on the second ring, with a bad feeling.
"Marteen," a cold male voice said. It was not a question. I had not even had time to say hello. "Martin, its Martin," I said back. "Martin," the voice corrected, then paused. "Yes, sir," I added. The voice seemed like the kind of voice I should say that to.
"This is the San Clemente Police Department. Present yourself here by oh-eight-hundred hours. The Chief wants to see you." The voice disconnected before I could answer. I stood holding the phone up to my ear. Slowly, I replaced it, still lost in thought. I also reflected upon the fact that I didn't know where the San Clemente Police Department was.
"Don't tell me," Amy said, holding up her left hand, which already had a Kent lit and smoking between her fingers. She held a steaming cup of black coffee in the other. "Its them." The tone she used, when she said 'them,' left not doubt as to who she was talking about. I nodded, "well, not exactly. That was the police. They want me to come up and see the chief. I suppose we have one, don't we?" I said.
"One what?" Amy asked, blowing more smoke.
""A Chief of Police," I answered, in exasperation. I pulled out the local phone book and went to the index. I finally found the address and approximate location. The place was in almost the exact center of San Clemente. I replaced the book, then sat down to drink a cup of coffee with Amy. Talking to her was one of the most pleasurable things I did in my life. But not this morning. She was unsettled about the day before, and how this one had started. I finished the coffee, grabbed my jacket, making sure not to disturb any of the ribbons, or other things, that hung from it, then headed out to the Volks.
I drove South on El Camino Real, until I ran into the correct cross street. I drove under the freeway, and there it was. A small flat building constructed in a cut-out half way up the side of a huge bluff. I drove into the drive way on one side. The Fire Department was headquartered in the same building I noted. Half the building was taken up by hangar-sized garages, behind which, no doubt, fire trucks were parked. A short line of police cruisers were parked at an angle in front of the far half of the building. I parked next to one of them. I got out of the car, put on my coat, buttoned it, then checked in my outside rear view mirror to make sure it was correctly buttoned and positioned. It was.
I went through the glass front door. A low counter ran across the opening, just inside the door. A half door, closed, was located at one end of the counter.
"You Martin?" the man said, rising from in front of a desk mounted microphone.
"Yes, sire," I answered, as if I was reporting in at the Marine base.
"Through that door," the man pointed at the half door, "Murray's office is down the hall, the door at the end. I'm Scruggs, radio officer, at your service." The man returned to his seat. I noted that he was not old, but entirely bald, and his face was a florid red color.
"Who's Murray/" I asked him. He looked over at me, as if I was a specimen of some sort. "The door at the end of the hall," he said, pointing. He had raised his voice much higher to say those words, like he was talking to a person hard of hearing. I shook my head, then went through the half door.
I got to the last door, which was closed. I knocked, lightly. "In," a voice boomed from behind it. I stepped through quickly, closing the door behind me. I felt like I was in OCS again. Until I looked up an saw the man's face. He was no drill sargeant. His smile was too big and too genuine. He got up from his desk, then came around it with his hand extended. We shook. He had strong grip, but not one of those grips intended to dominate. I noted that he wore a cheap blue suit, instead of the khaki uniform the radioman had had on.
"Sit," the big man said, returning to his own executive chair. I sat in a small hard-back in front of his desk. "So, you're the mysterious Martin." I just looked at him, wondering why I was mysterious. I didn't know what to say, so I said what I was trained to say. "Yes, sir." He nodded. I decided to go a bit further. "Ah, Chief, why am I here?"
"Damned if I know," the Chief responded. But I can tell you this. Those guys down there are paying you the salary of a Patrolman III, as of today. You'll only be a reserve officer here, I mean, when you're not working down there for them. You have to go to Rio Hondo Police Academy the next time they run through a bunch of recruits, and you have to buy your own gun." He stopped and looked at me.
"What?" was all I could manage. "I'm going to be a police officer?" I asked, haltingly. Murray smiled one of his open welcoming smiles. No, not exactly. "You are about to become a Peace Officer of the State of California. Raise you right hand, and repeat after me." He held up his right hand, so so did I. I repeated the words he said, but instantly forgot them. He tossed a big gold badge across the desk to me. It was the size of a closed fist. I picked it up. "Now you're a Peace Officer. Welcome aboard." He held out his hand again. I took it. "Scruggs out there will make you an I.D. card. Pick it up tomorrow."
I stood in front of the big man. I was a Marine Lieutenant, with a military I.D. I was working for H.R. Halderman, with a Presidential I.D. And now I was working for the San Clemente Police Department with a Police I.D. Somehow, with all those identifications.....I had lost my own.
"So, let's see if I have this straight," Amy said, her expression of the words holding out no hope for a question mark. "You now work for this blond guy, H.R. Haldeman, who, supposedly, works as an advisor to the President of the United States. That would be Richard Milhous Nixon. You have this new I.D. card, which tells us that you are "STAFF," whatever that is." She paced before him, up and down the small expanse of their living room floor, while she talked and thought. The new Military Style but not military identification card was in her right hand as she moved. I'd explained everything I knew, from my seat on our couch, but agitation had set into her before I'd finished. She had to move. It irritated me, to have her tower over me, but it would look ridiculous for both of them to pace about together, so I stayed seated.
"And Colonel Howling Jack Taylor, your commanding officer, knows nothing, and can't even ask you about any of this?" She might have paused, at that point, to get an answer, but she didn't. She paced some more. "And then there is you. You didn't bother to ask anyone what you would be doing? Where you would be doing it? Or why?" The sound of her deep sigh of disappointment would have been heard in the adjoining apartment, the walls of the one bedroom place were that thin, except it was daytime and nobody was there. Amy was the only female in the complex who was a housewife, and it was mid-day. Finally, she paused in her moving routine. She slapped the thick plastic card down onto the top of their cheap coffee table, then folded her arms facing him. Her normally smooth forehead was deeply furrowed. Her beautiful brown eyebrows were pulled together so close that the seemed to form one continuous line.
"Are you a complete and total idiot?" she asked, dead serious. Her tone was flat and level. I nodded, not being able to think of anything to say at all. I knew I should have asked questions of everyone, but I had not. I was a Marine. I knew how to take orders. And that's what I had done. I still had several weeks to serve, and although the Marine Corps and I had been going in different directions from the time I was wounded, I would serve out my time as a real Marine. And not a Marine like either of the 'Homo Vomitus' cretins I worked with at the CAG. But Amy gave me pause to think.
The Cotton Estate had only been rumored to have been sold to Nixon. There had been no confirmation, either in the local paper, or on television. Word had simply been bandied about the community, and mostly with negative connotations. San Clemente was a small Spanish town. It was mostly Democratic. It's close proximity to Camp Pendleton Marine Base was a constant source of unhappiness, if not outright distaste, for almost all of it's citizens. The livid scars of a continuing lost war were ever present, and directly attributable, to the military personnel who constantly circulated in, and around, the town.
"And what about pay?" Amy asked. "We have nothing. And what about after they dump you out of the Corps? Benefits? Transportation? Medical help for your healing?" She had begun pacing as she had started talking, firing out the short questions like shots out of a semi-auto rifle. I knew she was still upset by the medical board decision. I was going to be discharged with Zero percent disability. I was going to be determined to be too disabled to be a Marine, but not disabled enough to get any money. Amy called it a 'typical' Marine discharge, to their few friends, who were mostly Marines, or dependents of Marines. I had not thought about the discharge or the money when I had stood, looking out at the breaking surf, with the strange flat-topped man.
"Why you?" she said, "You're a mess, physically and mentally. You can't walk right and you have that thing open along your stomach," she waved her hand at me, as she paced. "Or is this a reward for your medals, I mean, except that Purple Heart one....I guess it would be maybe a punishment for getting that one, since your beloved Corps does not seem to care for injured Marines, much at all." She sat down on the couch next to me, but they didn't touch. "I don't get it," she said, at last. Taking a pack of Kent filtered cigarettes from the table, she produced a lighter and lit one of them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. I had never smoked, but I also never commented on her habit. I liked it. It was somehow meaningful pleasant to our relationship. She handled the slender white tubes in a way that added to her, already considerable, sexuality. Her short blue skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh. She looked at me looking, then blew smoke in my direction and crossed her legs.
"I suppose they told you that you couldn't tell me anything either," she said, then flicked a small piece of tobacco from her lip with her free hand. I looked down at the dark band, which indicated the top-most part of her pantyhose. It was peaking from under the slanted edge of her skirt. "Actually, nobody said anything about you at all. They said little about anything. I'm supposed to go in tomorrow and do what they tell me, I guess. But, I'll ask about the money, and the other stuff. I can't imagine that they are doing this just to occupy me for my last couple of weeks in the Corps." I brightened with my own words. I had thought, until turning the situation over in my mind, that I would simply serve out my time in the strange old Spanish villa. The guard had called it 'Casa Pacifica.' The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a new opportunity, however. Aside from the Lance Corporal, serving as a gate guard, there did not seem to be much for a Marine Lieutenant to do there.
Amy's anger faded, as the afternoon waned. A Manhatten before dinner helped even more. I sat up by myself until late in the evening, wondering about different details of the strange day I had just experienced. Amy had gone down early, and there had been no opportunity to enjoy anything she possessed, above the darkened pantyhose line, I had gazed upon earlier. Finally I sighed, went upstairs, and crawled into bed.
I awakened just before first light, as was my habit. I carefully displaced myself from the bed, so as not to wake Amy, as I did every day. As with every other day, I failed. I had realized early on that if I ever had an affair which ran late into the night, I would not be sneaking under the covers without my wife waking. She had detectors. Better than the sonic stuff we had used 'in country.'
"Are you awake?" she asked, unnecessarily, looking at me with one eye, her head sunk deeply into her pillow. "Yeah," I murmured in response, just like every other morning. She said no more, as I went through my morning regimen to prepare for work. Showered, shaved, shined and fully dressed, except for my tight green Class A uniform blouse, I watched the coffee perk up and down, time after time, in the top glass of our small stainless coffee pot. Amy came down, wearing a fluffy cream robe and huge, ridiculous, bathroom slippers. The phone on the wall between us rang. I looked at it, as did she. Both of us frowned. The phone never rang in the morning, especially not before seven a.m. I picked it up on the second ring, with a bad feeling.
"Marteen," a cold male voice said. It was not a question. I had not even had time to say hello. "Martin, its Martin," I said back. "Martin," the voice corrected, then paused. "Yes, sir," I added. The voice seemed like the kind of voice I should say that to.
"This is the San Clemente Police Department. Present yourself here by oh-eight-hundred hours. The Chief wants to see you." The voice disconnected before I could answer. I stood holding the phone up to my ear. Slowly, I replaced it, still lost in thought. I also reflected upon the fact that I didn't know where the San Clemente Police Department was.
"Don't tell me," Amy said, holding up her left hand, which already had a Kent lit and smoking between her fingers. She held a steaming cup of black coffee in the other. "Its them." The tone she used, when she said 'them,' left not doubt as to who she was talking about. I nodded, "well, not exactly. That was the police. They want me to come up and see the chief. I suppose we have one, don't we?" I said.
"One what?" Amy asked, blowing more smoke.
""A Chief of Police," I answered, in exasperation. I pulled out the local phone book and went to the index. I finally found the address and approximate location. The place was in almost the exact center of San Clemente. I replaced the book, then sat down to drink a cup of coffee with Amy. Talking to her was one of the most pleasurable things I did in my life. But not this morning. She was unsettled about the day before, and how this one had started. I finished the coffee, grabbed my jacket, making sure not to disturb any of the ribbons, or other things, that hung from it, then headed out to the Volks.
I drove South on El Camino Real, until I ran into the correct cross street. I drove under the freeway, and there it was. A small flat building constructed in a cut-out half way up the side of a huge bluff. I drove into the drive way on one side. The Fire Department was headquartered in the same building I noted. Half the building was taken up by hangar-sized garages, behind which, no doubt, fire trucks were parked. A short line of police cruisers were parked at an angle in front of the far half of the building. I parked next to one of them. I got out of the car, put on my coat, buttoned it, then checked in my outside rear view mirror to make sure it was correctly buttoned and positioned. It was.
I went through the glass front door. A low counter ran across the opening, just inside the door. A half door, closed, was located at one end of the counter.
"You Martin?" the man said, rising from in front of a desk mounted microphone.
"Yes, sire," I answered, as if I was reporting in at the Marine base.
"Through that door," the man pointed at the half door, "Murray's office is down the hall, the door at the end. I'm Scruggs, radio officer, at your service." The man returned to his seat. I noted that he was not old, but entirely bald, and his face was a florid red color.
"Who's Murray/" I asked him. He looked over at me, as if I was a specimen of some sort. "The door at the end of the hall," he said, pointing. He had raised his voice much higher to say those words, like he was talking to a person hard of hearing. I shook my head, then went through the half door.
I got to the last door, which was closed. I knocked, lightly. "In," a voice boomed from behind it. I stepped through quickly, closing the door behind me. I felt like I was in OCS again. Until I looked up an saw the man's face. He was no drill sargeant. His smile was too big and too genuine. He got up from his desk, then came around it with his hand extended. We shook. He had strong grip, but not one of those grips intended to dominate. I noted that he wore a cheap blue suit, instead of the khaki uniform the radioman had had on.
"Sit," the big man said, returning to his own executive chair. I sat in a small hard-back in front of his desk. "So, you're the mysterious Martin." I just looked at him, wondering why I was mysterious. I didn't know what to say, so I said what I was trained to say. "Yes, sir." He nodded. I decided to go a bit further. "Ah, Chief, why am I here?"
"Damned if I know," the Chief responded. But I can tell you this. Those guys down there are paying you the salary of a Patrolman III, as of today. You'll only be a reserve officer here, I mean, when you're not working down there for them. You have to go to Rio Hondo Police Academy the next time they run through a bunch of recruits, and you have to buy your own gun." He stopped and looked at me.
"What?" was all I could manage. "I'm going to be a police officer?" I asked, haltingly. Murray smiled one of his open welcoming smiles. No, not exactly. "You are about to become a Peace Officer of the State of California. Raise you right hand, and repeat after me." He held up his right hand, so so did I. I repeated the words he said, but instantly forgot them. He tossed a big gold badge across the desk to me. It was the size of a closed fist. I picked it up. "Now you're a Peace Officer. Welcome aboard." He held out his hand again. I took it. "Scruggs out there will make you an I.D. card. Pick it up tomorrow."
I stood in front of the big man. I was a Marine Lieutenant, with a military I.D. I was working for H.R. Halderman, with a Presidential I.D. And now I was working for the San Clemente Police Department with a Police I.D. Somehow, with all those identifications.....I had lost my own.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
San Clemente, "Chapter II, "Cottons"
The letter had stated that I was to proceed to a place called the Cotton Estate, in San Clemente, and report in there. It had included no additional instructions, other than the confidentiality clause, and it had not been signed by anyone. I reflected ruefully, for a moment, on my departure from the First Civil Affiars Group. If I had been able to control myself better, when I was with Colonel Taylor and Captain Merrill, I might have learned more. I might have been able to get a peek at the orders which had been delivered to Howling Jack. My orders had been unsigned, but it was very unlikely that the Commanding Officer of any Regimental Support Team in the United States Marine Corps would have accepted any document that was not impeccably inscribed and signed. But, that chance, to at least have the identity of whoever was behind the orders, was lost. I smiled widely, however, as I wound the Volkswagen deftly through the curves of Camp Horno, on my way back to the Pulgas gate. I repeated the words of my exit from the Civil Affairs Group, then laughed aloud. The XO had given me a last look, so twisted and intense, that it had been as if a lighted cigar had been inserted into his mouth, burning tip first. I laughed some more, with both front door windows cranked down, and the small tinny FM radio belting out: "In the Year 2525, if man is still alive, if woman can survive...."
The Calafia exit, from Northbound Interstate 5, loomed ahead. I began to slow from my Volks' top speed of eighty-eight miles per hour. I had thought to call my wife, back at our apartment, but there had been no place to call from. There was also the stipulation, in my single sheet of orders, which said "immediately." I guided the car across the overpass, and toward the ribbon of blue ocean visible near the horizon, to the West. The exit took me to El Camino, which took me to the San Luis Rey overpass. The overpass ran into Pacific Palisades. That street ran half the length of San Clemente, paralleling the beach atop, alternately, one hundred foot bluffs and dunes rolling just above flat sandy beach coves. I turned South at the "T" made by the dead-ending of the road over the interstate. I crumpled my one page of orders between the buttons of my Class A green coat, straightened the tie clip on my cream colored Marine tie, then headed for the end of the road. Expensive homes lined the area, between the cliff down to the ocean, and the road I was on. I passed first, a small grade school, then the Coast Guard station. The road abruptly ended, just beyond the station. I turned around and crept back the way I had come. Recessed back, just before you got to the Coast Guard Station, was a large white wall with a big arch in it. I had missed it. A small asphalt road rant under the arch.
I drove to the arch, which had been converted into a gate. The gate had a guard, who only stepped out after I had stopped in front of a rickety looking wooden saw-horse. The guard turned out to be a single Marine Lance Corporal in field utilities. He stood at Parade Rest, next to the driver-side window, then slowly saluted. I didn't know if he was saluting the blue Officer base-sticker on the windshield, or if he had seen the yellow bars on my shoulders. I did not salute back. My cover was on the passenger seat. Marines did not salute indoors or uncovered, unlike Army personnel.
"How can I help you, sir," the Marine said, his arms dropping to his sides. Once he had finished the short sentence, his right hand rose up and extended to the window, as if waiting for some contribution. I looked at the hand. I knew immediately that security was tighter than the saw horse gave the impression of. The hand was waiting for documents of identification and some sort of clearance for why I was there. I said nothing, working my wallet our of my back pocket. I took out my military identification card, then pulled out the single sheet of orders from inside my blouse. He took the I.D. card, but just waved at the piece of paper. "Be right back, sir," the Lance Corporal said. I waited. I looked over at the Coast Guard Station, wondering if I was somehow going to be connected to that place until I processed out of the Corps. The wait grew so lengthy that I finally turned the ignition key off, and pulled my left arm out of the hot morning sun.
The Lance Corporal came back. "Proceed down the road, and through the next gate. Park next to the wall. Someone will meet you at the door." I took my I.D. card back. "What is the Cotton Estate, anyway?" I asked, then "Do they grow cotton here?" The Corporal just looked at me. "I don't know, sir," he said, deadpan, then moved to the front of the car to pull back the saw-horse. I shrugged. I had been having a nice day-dream about sailing a Coast Guard skiff among a bevy of Southern California beach beauties, but it did not appear that that was going to be my assigned function. I drove away, as instructed. The new black tarmac weaved back and forth several times, before the vegetation cleared, and I as able to see a second wall, with a second arch. I presumed the Marine's description of a second gate was, in reality, the second arch. I stopped near a barred wooden door, set deep into the solid stone wall. I got out of the Volks to examine it. It was one of those thick old wooden things with black steel straps. There was no visible handle or port. I looked around, feeling foolish, then tapped on the door. I would have said "open sesame" at the same time, but I was intrigued by everything that had happened that morning, and a bit unsure of myself.
The door sucked silently open. A tall suited stranger filled the space left by the door. The man wore a small radio microphone in his right ear, and aviator sun glasses. The glasses were of too dark a material to allow me to see the man's eyes. I had only seen Secret Service Agents on television, but I knew instantly that I was standing in front of one of them.
"Identification?" the man said, his hand extending out, in exactly the same way the Marine's had. I noted that he did not refer to me as 'sir.' "Wait here," he said, then left with my I.D. card, just as the Marine had. "Holy shit," i breathed, very quietly. Until that moment I had not realized that, whatever I had somehow stepped into, was not to be taken lightly. The Secret Service was a serious outfit. Also, the Marine guard out front was not there for play. Real Marine guards were only used for National Security assignments. The rest of security was contracted out. The man returned, but his hands were empty.
"This way," he said, gesturing with the slight flip of his left shoulder, while closing the door with his right hand. The door clicked instead of slamming. I realized that the door only looked like an old Spanish entryway. I wondered what it was really made of. I followed the man. "What about my I.D. card?" I said to the walking man's back. We walked through several more doorways, the doors always open. Finally, we stepped through an interior arch into a great windowed room. The agent stopped, turned, then leaned close to whisper, "You'll get your I.D., and a new one, when you leave....I think." He then departed the way we had come. "He thinks?" I whispered to myself. I looked out across the Spanish tile floor of the room. It was well appointed, with expensive furniture. The floor was partially covered by large Persian rugs, the kind I had only seen in stores.
The room's windows ran side by side along the far wall, giving a complete curved panorama of the breaking waves, which were moving ceaselessly in toward a long beach of flat beautiful sand. I noticed a man. He was standing, facing the ocean, right up close to the windows. He wore an unusual cream-colored suit. A distinctive feature caught my immediate attention. The man's blond hair was cut strangely. His haircut was like a Marine cut, except it was flat on top. It was an old flat-top cut I had only seen in photos and on television, not in real life. I looked around, but there was no one else in the room. I walked to stand next to the blond, flat-topped man. He was taller than me by several inches. I looked up at his chiseled profile. He face was clean-shaven, the muscles of his jaw tight, individually distinguishable, while his nose was long and straight. His face was slightly too long, I decided, and he looked a little too much like the Marine Corps posters of the perfect Marine. Every real Marine hated those posters. I didn't know what to say, so I turned and looked out at the waves too. We stood like that for several minutes.
"You're orders are from me," he said, his eyes remaining glued to the ocean just outside the windows. I held myself rigid, next to the man. I felt that he would tell me when to say something. I listened, and stared at the sea. When the man talked it was almost impossible to discern lip movement, I noted. "You'll be working for me," the man said, his lips again not moving. I felt an impulse to giggle. Maybe the man was a ventriloquist sent to entertain the President, I thought. But I did not even smile. I finally could not contain myself anymore. "Who are you, sir?" I asked.
"I'm H.R. Halderman, advisor to the President of the United States," he said, the words rolling out one after another, as if a tape was being played at a slower speed than it was recorded, with all emotion sucked out of it. "They call me H.R., behind my back....so don't." I nodded, wanting to ask "don't what?" but I didn't. H.R. Halderman flicked his head to the rear. Somehow I knew, from the gesture, that our strange, one-sided interview was over. I turned, heading for the arch I had come in under. "We start at 0900 in the morning around here," he said. I nodded, although I knew he couldn't see me. The Secret Service agent appeared, magically, at the arch by the time I got there. He handed me my I.D. back. "You get a new one in the morning. Don't be late. He doesn't like to start late." I nodded, putting my I.D. card away. "Start what?" I said, very quietly, so H.R. Halderman would not hear me.
"You work for H.R. now. Welcome to his world," the agent said.
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http://www.themastodons.com
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copyright 2009
The Calafia exit, from Northbound Interstate 5, loomed ahead. I began to slow from my Volks' top speed of eighty-eight miles per hour. I had thought to call my wife, back at our apartment, but there had been no place to call from. There was also the stipulation, in my single sheet of orders, which said "immediately." I guided the car across the overpass, and toward the ribbon of blue ocean visible near the horizon, to the West. The exit took me to El Camino, which took me to the San Luis Rey overpass. The overpass ran into Pacific Palisades. That street ran half the length of San Clemente, paralleling the beach atop, alternately, one hundred foot bluffs and dunes rolling just above flat sandy beach coves. I turned South at the "T" made by the dead-ending of the road over the interstate. I crumpled my one page of orders between the buttons of my Class A green coat, straightened the tie clip on my cream colored Marine tie, then headed for the end of the road. Expensive homes lined the area, between the cliff down to the ocean, and the road I was on. I passed first, a small grade school, then the Coast Guard station. The road abruptly ended, just beyond the station. I turned around and crept back the way I had come. Recessed back, just before you got to the Coast Guard Station, was a large white wall with a big arch in it. I had missed it. A small asphalt road rant under the arch.
I drove to the arch, which had been converted into a gate. The gate had a guard, who only stepped out after I had stopped in front of a rickety looking wooden saw-horse. The guard turned out to be a single Marine Lance Corporal in field utilities. He stood at Parade Rest, next to the driver-side window, then slowly saluted. I didn't know if he was saluting the blue Officer base-sticker on the windshield, or if he had seen the yellow bars on my shoulders. I did not salute back. My cover was on the passenger seat. Marines did not salute indoors or uncovered, unlike Army personnel.
"How can I help you, sir," the Marine said, his arms dropping to his sides. Once he had finished the short sentence, his right hand rose up and extended to the window, as if waiting for some contribution. I looked at the hand. I knew immediately that security was tighter than the saw horse gave the impression of. The hand was waiting for documents of identification and some sort of clearance for why I was there. I said nothing, working my wallet our of my back pocket. I took out my military identification card, then pulled out the single sheet of orders from inside my blouse. He took the I.D. card, but just waved at the piece of paper. "Be right back, sir," the Lance Corporal said. I waited. I looked over at the Coast Guard Station, wondering if I was somehow going to be connected to that place until I processed out of the Corps. The wait grew so lengthy that I finally turned the ignition key off, and pulled my left arm out of the hot morning sun.
The Lance Corporal came back. "Proceed down the road, and through the next gate. Park next to the wall. Someone will meet you at the door." I took my I.D. card back. "What is the Cotton Estate, anyway?" I asked, then "Do they grow cotton here?" The Corporal just looked at me. "I don't know, sir," he said, deadpan, then moved to the front of the car to pull back the saw-horse. I shrugged. I had been having a nice day-dream about sailing a Coast Guard skiff among a bevy of Southern California beach beauties, but it did not appear that that was going to be my assigned function. I drove away, as instructed. The new black tarmac weaved back and forth several times, before the vegetation cleared, and I as able to see a second wall, with a second arch. I presumed the Marine's description of a second gate was, in reality, the second arch. I stopped near a barred wooden door, set deep into the solid stone wall. I got out of the Volks to examine it. It was one of those thick old wooden things with black steel straps. There was no visible handle or port. I looked around, feeling foolish, then tapped on the door. I would have said "open sesame" at the same time, but I was intrigued by everything that had happened that morning, and a bit unsure of myself.
The door sucked silently open. A tall suited stranger filled the space left by the door. The man wore a small radio microphone in his right ear, and aviator sun glasses. The glasses were of too dark a material to allow me to see the man's eyes. I had only seen Secret Service Agents on television, but I knew instantly that I was standing in front of one of them.
"Identification?" the man said, his hand extending out, in exactly the same way the Marine's had. I noted that he did not refer to me as 'sir.' "Wait here," he said, then left with my I.D. card, just as the Marine had. "Holy shit," i breathed, very quietly. Until that moment I had not realized that, whatever I had somehow stepped into, was not to be taken lightly. The Secret Service was a serious outfit. Also, the Marine guard out front was not there for play. Real Marine guards were only used for National Security assignments. The rest of security was contracted out. The man returned, but his hands were empty.
"This way," he said, gesturing with the slight flip of his left shoulder, while closing the door with his right hand. The door clicked instead of slamming. I realized that the door only looked like an old Spanish entryway. I wondered what it was really made of. I followed the man. "What about my I.D. card?" I said to the walking man's back. We walked through several more doorways, the doors always open. Finally, we stepped through an interior arch into a great windowed room. The agent stopped, turned, then leaned close to whisper, "You'll get your I.D., and a new one, when you leave....I think." He then departed the way we had come. "He thinks?" I whispered to myself. I looked out across the Spanish tile floor of the room. It was well appointed, with expensive furniture. The floor was partially covered by large Persian rugs, the kind I had only seen in stores.
The room's windows ran side by side along the far wall, giving a complete curved panorama of the breaking waves, which were moving ceaselessly in toward a long beach of flat beautiful sand. I noticed a man. He was standing, facing the ocean, right up close to the windows. He wore an unusual cream-colored suit. A distinctive feature caught my immediate attention. The man's blond hair was cut strangely. His haircut was like a Marine cut, except it was flat on top. It was an old flat-top cut I had only seen in photos and on television, not in real life. I looked around, but there was no one else in the room. I walked to stand next to the blond, flat-topped man. He was taller than me by several inches. I looked up at his chiseled profile. He face was clean-shaven, the muscles of his jaw tight, individually distinguishable, while his nose was long and straight. His face was slightly too long, I decided, and he looked a little too much like the Marine Corps posters of the perfect Marine. Every real Marine hated those posters. I didn't know what to say, so I turned and looked out at the waves too. We stood like that for several minutes.
"You're orders are from me," he said, his eyes remaining glued to the ocean just outside the windows. I held myself rigid, next to the man. I felt that he would tell me when to say something. I listened, and stared at the sea. When the man talked it was almost impossible to discern lip movement, I noted. "You'll be working for me," the man said, his lips again not moving. I felt an impulse to giggle. Maybe the man was a ventriloquist sent to entertain the President, I thought. But I did not even smile. I finally could not contain myself anymore. "Who are you, sir?" I asked.
"I'm H.R. Halderman, advisor to the President of the United States," he said, the words rolling out one after another, as if a tape was being played at a slower speed than it was recorded, with all emotion sucked out of it. "They call me H.R., behind my back....so don't." I nodded, wanting to ask "don't what?" but I didn't. H.R. Halderman flicked his head to the rear. Somehow I knew, from the gesture, that our strange, one-sided interview was over. I turned, heading for the arch I had come in under. "We start at 0900 in the morning around here," he said. I nodded, although I knew he couldn't see me. The Secret Service agent appeared, magically, at the arch by the time I got there. He handed me my I.D. back. "You get a new one in the morning. Don't be late. He doesn't like to start late." I nodded, putting my I.D. card away. "Start what?" I said, very quietly, so H.R. Halderman would not hear me.
"You work for H.R. now. Welcome to his world," the agent said.
http://wwwjamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
copyright 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
San Clemente "Chapter I, " The Registered Publication"
The First Civil Affairs Group maintained an office on a small barren knoll, about a mile distant from the Headquarters of the 13th Artillery Regiment, of the First Marine Division. The area was uncleared, but comprised of such hard-crusted flooring that it gave the appearance of being set onto a great rounded concrete pad, broken up only by a few brown tendrils of struggling vegetation. I reported in to an ugly rectangular building at seven a.m. every morning. The morning sun, just mounting the Pulgas Mountain Range in the distance, reflected back a dull green hue upon the side of the building's wall. There was no Marine guard at the building door, unlike Headquarters. There was no "Mornin' Sir," or crisp salute, to start my day. I glanced back over my shoulder, to make sure that the new red Volkswagen I had purchased only a week before was properly parked. There were no real parking lines. Headquarters had asphalt parking, with bright white lines. Our cars were parked between lines scraped every day into the hard desert surface. But Marines parked inside the lines. Always. The Volks was easy to park, not like the GTO I had to trade in for it.
But the GTO had had to go. My leg would not take the torque, no matter how much patience and therapy I put into it. One of the bullets I had been hit with had broken my hip bone. Fragmented Ilia, they termed it. I'd loved that blue streak of a car, and had almost killed myself with it many times. But I was also a lieutenant, and didn't make very much money. Driving the Volks, however, had not been too terrible. It actually was a lot of fun, but not fun like the GTO had been. "Different, very different," I muttered to myself aloud, turning the last corner of my passage through the labyrinthian switch-backed corridor to arrive at my tiny walled in cubicle.
"No shit," a male voice said, from behind me. I turned before getting to my gray, rubber-covered desk, which had been produced some time right after World War I. Captain Merrill stood facing me. Captain Merrill was the Executive Officer of our small outfit. We disliked each other intensely, although very politely. It had been Captain Merrill who had 'collected' me when I had reported into Headquarters following my release from full disability status at the base hospital. I had thought, until meeting the Captain, that I would be able to serve out the short remainder of my Marine Corps tour with some light duty, along with getting ready to transition into civilian life. My entire prior year had been spent in hospitals, trying to come back from gunshot wounds in the abdomen, hip and legs. Pieces of Vietnam were still inside my body, working their way out through small festering boils, every few months. Vietnam wasn't in my mind, however. It was just that I couldn't sleep.
Captain Merrill had spotted my release forms, and immediately had me assigned to the Civil Affairs Group. We did nothing there except plan, plan and re-plan. We planned for a time when the Marine Corps might be fighting in the Palau Islands. I was in charge of planning the layout of a supply depot on the island of Babelthuap. The island had been planned for, as a depot, by the prior ten officers to hold my position.
I stared at the Captain, almost in shock. The man had appeared at my cubicle, and said a swear-word. Two things I had never known him to do. His aversion to swearing was one of the reasons he hated me so badly. When I had found out he liked to be thought of as some sort of left-over war hero from "Merrill's Mauraders," I had instantly converted the phrase into 'Merrill's Mother-Fuckers.'
"What is it, sir?" I asked, coming to a position of vague attention. I could not stomach any part of the phony Marine Officer Corps I had found back home. The one's who had avoided Vietnam like the plague, but then acted like they were God's gifts to macho warriors. Merrill had never been in combat, and his chest ribbons blared that. I had five rows of combat decorations on my own. I realized, looking at the vertical puke-tube of a human being, that I did not despise him, I hated him.
The Captain didn't answer me. He just pointed at the desk I was standing in front of. I twisted around to look, grimacing through a spike of pain. I would not show any reaction in front of Merrill, however, so I covered it with a "yes, sir." On top of my clean gray rubber desk-top was an envelope. A large eight-and-a-half by eleven brown one. The envelope was typical Marine inter-office stuff, but not the writing across the top of it. Large red letters were printed horizontally across it's entire surface. They read "SECRET." A small white note was clipped to the envelope. I moved closer, to be able look down and read it. It had only my name and rank on it. The envelope had had to be hand delivered. I realized right away why Captain Merrill was there. The Registered Publications System, which controlled all classified documents, had very specific rules for the handling of them. No classified document, designated above 'Confidential,' could be left unattended. Merrill was the assigned attendant. He had had to wait for my arrival. No wonder he was pissed off, I thought.
"Oh," gushed out of me. I could think of nothing else to say. I stared down at the unlikely envelope. My tour of duty, which would formally end with the implementation of the disability board's findings, was three weeks away. I could not walk right, eat right, sleep right, or do much else right, when it came to Marine Corps procedures and actions. I was history, and everyone, including me, knew it. Even my reports on the supply depot located at some idiotic, never to be visited, tropical isle had been scaled back. I continued to stare at the unlikely envelope. I had not secrets. I knew no secrets. I was a highly decorated, blown to smithereens low-life to the Corps. I had not even been promoted above Second Lieutenant. I had stopped wearing my ribbons to mainside. Too many higher officers had stopped me, and wanted me to prove that I really had the decorations indicated by the ribbons. They had claimed that a Second Lieutenant, who had received such decorations, would have been promoted to at least First Lieutenant by the time he got home. I did not mention to them that I thought I had figured that riddle out. Why I had not been promoted. That it was because the officers on promotions boards were just like them. But I had to wear the things to work, and so I did, which just caused Merrill to hate me more.
"Open the damned envelope!" Merrill said, behind me, quite forcefully. In the back of my mind, I smiled, to hear the human maggot swear for the second time that morning. I went around my desk, tossed my flat cover onto the moldy chair, then reached down and picked up the envelope. The flap was glued. Another unusual feature of it. I tore the edge off of it, slowly, watching the XO squirm with impatience. I slid out the single sheet of white paper it contained. I read the document. Then I read it again. "What does it say?" Merrill demanded, stepping closer. I took my eyes off the piece of paper, holding it so Merrill could not see the writing.
"I have to see the Commanding Officer." I said, flatly. I quickly replaced the sheet of paper inside the envelope. Merrill and I frowned at each other. I thought about our Commanding Officer. He was another of the more nasty creatures I had met in the Corps. Colonel Jack Taylor. He preferred other officers of his rank to call him by his self-designated nickname. Howling Jack. Howling Jack had been in both wars, WWII and Korea. He had been in Vietnam, which he continually pontificated, was not a war at all. He had been in the rear with the gear for all of his wars, I knew. Supply Officer. Which would have been okay, except he was a buff. A buff was an man who had served, but had not served in a combat position, yet acted like he had. I had had to stop going to the Commanding Officers lunch at the "O" club because of the fake war stories. My facial expressions, no matter how much I tried to control them, gave off emanations of boredom and derision. They had been noticed.
I followed Merrill out through the corridor of many unimportant cubicles. Both the C.O. and X.O. had big offices out front. They were the one's who watched the rest of us drive up and park, then wrote up reports when we drove across, or parked on, the make-believe lines. The C.O. was in. His short legs were propped up so he could rest them on the front edge of his desk. His shoes were the new face corfam things. Shine from the factory. Fake shoes. Fake Marine. I stopped in front of his desk. Merrill came up to me, and demanded the envelope. I just looked at him, putting it in my hand farthest from him.
"What have we here?" Howling Jack said, smiling his mean, scum-bag, smile. I smiled back at him, before speaking. "I have a registered document," I flashed the SECRET designation at him, "and it says that I can't tell you anything." I reached into the envelope. I took out the sheet of paper, and started quoting. "You will not discuss this document with your Commanding Officers or anyone else." I put the paper away, again. The two men stared at each other across the desk. Howling Jack brought his feet to the floor with a loud crash. I watched the X.O.'s face diffuse with blood and become dark. "Bullshit," he hissed at me, swearing for the third time that day. I almost checked my watch to get a record of it, but did not.
None of us noticed the entry into the room of a third individual, until he spoke. "Excuse me sir, but I'm from mainside. May I have a moment, sir?" I noted that the new man was a staff sergeant. He was carrying an envelope similar to mine, except there was no registered designation on it's surface, that I could see. "What the hell do you want?" Taylor screamed at the sergeant. The sergeant extended his hand, holding the envelope out. Merrill took it roughly, then handed it to Taylor. "You have to read it, sign for it, and then I have to take it back." I noted that the sergeant had not ended his presentation with the word 'sir,' which made me smile. "What the hell's going on?" Howling Jack said, opening the second envelope, then reading. He shook his head. He gave the letter to Merrill.
"It says that we can't ask him any questions at all. That we have to carry him on the rolls of our command, as if he's still here, even when he's not. It says we have to do what he tells us." Merrill's voice had gone low, near the end of his reading. Taylor grabbed the letter back, signed it, then gave it to the staff sergeant. The man took the envelope, then walked out without saying a word, a direct violation of Marine etiquette and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I smiled again.
"We have to do what he tells us?" Howling Jack said, a bit of spittle coming from his mouth, giving away his building rage. "What he tells us? This pip-squeak of broken-down little bastard?" He stood, then turned to look out the window, to his commanding view of our desert parking lot. "Just what is it that you'd like us to do, before you get out of my office, Lieutenant?" he inquired, not turning to face me. I thought for a minute, about my remaining time in the Corps. My service in Vietnam. My treatment by these two supposed Marine Officers since coming to the command. "Well," I said, slowly, "I'd like you to both go fuck yourselves."
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http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
copyright 2009
But the GTO had had to go. My leg would not take the torque, no matter how much patience and therapy I put into it. One of the bullets I had been hit with had broken my hip bone. Fragmented Ilia, they termed it. I'd loved that blue streak of a car, and had almost killed myself with it many times. But I was also a lieutenant, and didn't make very much money. Driving the Volks, however, had not been too terrible. It actually was a lot of fun, but not fun like the GTO had been. "Different, very different," I muttered to myself aloud, turning the last corner of my passage through the labyrinthian switch-backed corridor to arrive at my tiny walled in cubicle.
"No shit," a male voice said, from behind me. I turned before getting to my gray, rubber-covered desk, which had been produced some time right after World War I. Captain Merrill stood facing me. Captain Merrill was the Executive Officer of our small outfit. We disliked each other intensely, although very politely. It had been Captain Merrill who had 'collected' me when I had reported into Headquarters following my release from full disability status at the base hospital. I had thought, until meeting the Captain, that I would be able to serve out the short remainder of my Marine Corps tour with some light duty, along with getting ready to transition into civilian life. My entire prior year had been spent in hospitals, trying to come back from gunshot wounds in the abdomen, hip and legs. Pieces of Vietnam were still inside my body, working their way out through small festering boils, every few months. Vietnam wasn't in my mind, however. It was just that I couldn't sleep.
Captain Merrill had spotted my release forms, and immediately had me assigned to the Civil Affairs Group. We did nothing there except plan, plan and re-plan. We planned for a time when the Marine Corps might be fighting in the Palau Islands. I was in charge of planning the layout of a supply depot on the island of Babelthuap. The island had been planned for, as a depot, by the prior ten officers to hold my position.
I stared at the Captain, almost in shock. The man had appeared at my cubicle, and said a swear-word. Two things I had never known him to do. His aversion to swearing was one of the reasons he hated me so badly. When I had found out he liked to be thought of as some sort of left-over war hero from "Merrill's Mauraders," I had instantly converted the phrase into 'Merrill's Mother-Fuckers.'
"What is it, sir?" I asked, coming to a position of vague attention. I could not stomach any part of the phony Marine Officer Corps I had found back home. The one's who had avoided Vietnam like the plague, but then acted like they were God's gifts to macho warriors. Merrill had never been in combat, and his chest ribbons blared that. I had five rows of combat decorations on my own. I realized, looking at the vertical puke-tube of a human being, that I did not despise him, I hated him.
The Captain didn't answer me. He just pointed at the desk I was standing in front of. I twisted around to look, grimacing through a spike of pain. I would not show any reaction in front of Merrill, however, so I covered it with a "yes, sir." On top of my clean gray rubber desk-top was an envelope. A large eight-and-a-half by eleven brown one. The envelope was typical Marine inter-office stuff, but not the writing across the top of it. Large red letters were printed horizontally across it's entire surface. They read "SECRET." A small white note was clipped to the envelope. I moved closer, to be able look down and read it. It had only my name and rank on it. The envelope had had to be hand delivered. I realized right away why Captain Merrill was there. The Registered Publications System, which controlled all classified documents, had very specific rules for the handling of them. No classified document, designated above 'Confidential,' could be left unattended. Merrill was the assigned attendant. He had had to wait for my arrival. No wonder he was pissed off, I thought.
"Oh," gushed out of me. I could think of nothing else to say. I stared down at the unlikely envelope. My tour of duty, which would formally end with the implementation of the disability board's findings, was three weeks away. I could not walk right, eat right, sleep right, or do much else right, when it came to Marine Corps procedures and actions. I was history, and everyone, including me, knew it. Even my reports on the supply depot located at some idiotic, never to be visited, tropical isle had been scaled back. I continued to stare at the unlikely envelope. I had not secrets. I knew no secrets. I was a highly decorated, blown to smithereens low-life to the Corps. I had not even been promoted above Second Lieutenant. I had stopped wearing my ribbons to mainside. Too many higher officers had stopped me, and wanted me to prove that I really had the decorations indicated by the ribbons. They had claimed that a Second Lieutenant, who had received such decorations, would have been promoted to at least First Lieutenant by the time he got home. I did not mention to them that I thought I had figured that riddle out. Why I had not been promoted. That it was because the officers on promotions boards were just like them. But I had to wear the things to work, and so I did, which just caused Merrill to hate me more.
"Open the damned envelope!" Merrill said, behind me, quite forcefully. In the back of my mind, I smiled, to hear the human maggot swear for the second time that morning. I went around my desk, tossed my flat cover onto the moldy chair, then reached down and picked up the envelope. The flap was glued. Another unusual feature of it. I tore the edge off of it, slowly, watching the XO squirm with impatience. I slid out the single sheet of white paper it contained. I read the document. Then I read it again. "What does it say?" Merrill demanded, stepping closer. I took my eyes off the piece of paper, holding it so Merrill could not see the writing.
"I have to see the Commanding Officer." I said, flatly. I quickly replaced the sheet of paper inside the envelope. Merrill and I frowned at each other. I thought about our Commanding Officer. He was another of the more nasty creatures I had met in the Corps. Colonel Jack Taylor. He preferred other officers of his rank to call him by his self-designated nickname. Howling Jack. Howling Jack had been in both wars, WWII and Korea. He had been in Vietnam, which he continually pontificated, was not a war at all. He had been in the rear with the gear for all of his wars, I knew. Supply Officer. Which would have been okay, except he was a buff. A buff was an man who had served, but had not served in a combat position, yet acted like he had. I had had to stop going to the Commanding Officers lunch at the "O" club because of the fake war stories. My facial expressions, no matter how much I tried to control them, gave off emanations of boredom and derision. They had been noticed.
I followed Merrill out through the corridor of many unimportant cubicles. Both the C.O. and X.O. had big offices out front. They were the one's who watched the rest of us drive up and park, then wrote up reports when we drove across, or parked on, the make-believe lines. The C.O. was in. His short legs were propped up so he could rest them on the front edge of his desk. His shoes were the new face corfam things. Shine from the factory. Fake shoes. Fake Marine. I stopped in front of his desk. Merrill came up to me, and demanded the envelope. I just looked at him, putting it in my hand farthest from him.
"What have we here?" Howling Jack said, smiling his mean, scum-bag, smile. I smiled back at him, before speaking. "I have a registered document," I flashed the SECRET designation at him, "and it says that I can't tell you anything." I reached into the envelope. I took out the sheet of paper, and started quoting. "You will not discuss this document with your Commanding Officers or anyone else." I put the paper away, again. The two men stared at each other across the desk. Howling Jack brought his feet to the floor with a loud crash. I watched the X.O.'s face diffuse with blood and become dark. "Bullshit," he hissed at me, swearing for the third time that day. I almost checked my watch to get a record of it, but did not.
None of us noticed the entry into the room of a third individual, until he spoke. "Excuse me sir, but I'm from mainside. May I have a moment, sir?" I noted that the new man was a staff sergeant. He was carrying an envelope similar to mine, except there was no registered designation on it's surface, that I could see. "What the hell do you want?" Taylor screamed at the sergeant. The sergeant extended his hand, holding the envelope out. Merrill took it roughly, then handed it to Taylor. "You have to read it, sign for it, and then I have to take it back." I noted that the sergeant had not ended his presentation with the word 'sir,' which made me smile. "What the hell's going on?" Howling Jack said, opening the second envelope, then reading. He shook his head. He gave the letter to Merrill.
"It says that we can't ask him any questions at all. That we have to carry him on the rolls of our command, as if he's still here, even when he's not. It says we have to do what he tells us." Merrill's voice had gone low, near the end of his reading. Taylor grabbed the letter back, signed it, then gave it to the staff sergeant. The man took the envelope, then walked out without saying a word, a direct violation of Marine etiquette and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I smiled again.
"We have to do what he tells us?" Howling Jack said, a bit of spittle coming from his mouth, giving away his building rage. "What he tells us? This pip-squeak of broken-down little bastard?" He stood, then turned to look out the window, to his commanding view of our desert parking lot. "Just what is it that you'd like us to do, before you get out of my office, Lieutenant?" he inquired, not turning to face me. I thought for a minute, about my remaining time in the Corps. My service in Vietnam. My treatment by these two supposed Marine Officers since coming to the command. "Well," I said, slowly, "I'd like you to both go fuck yourselves."
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