A sense of great power, seemingly not entirely rational, overcame me as I felt the bottom of the balloon basket leap upward, causing my knees to bend slightly. A simple brass lever being moved less than an inch had released tens of pounds of propane instantly, to be ignited and produce almost 20 million BTU’s of energy upward into the 120,000 cubic feet of envelope capacity. I was there with Kris but was truly alone, rising like Icarus into the rising sun’s rays. I stared up into the expanded envelope.
“We do not have high-altitude equipment,” Kris said from behind me. He pointed at the instrument panel.
I looked at the altitude gauge and the needle indicated only six thousand feet or so and rising.
“That’s AGL, using radar altimeter,” Kris said, pointing lower down on the display panel. “Above ground level.”
I looked at the second gauge which was showing over 10,000, and breathed in deeply, not because I needed more air in my lungs but because I was surprised. The balloon had silently risen almost like a rocket.
A rope appeared around my left shoulder. It was the regular thick but unremarkable cord that I knew was the vent rope.
“Ten thousand is fine for me and maybe you but it can cause light-headedness, dizziness and sometimes vomiting, all of which are unpleasant to deal with when the basket might be filled with passengers.”
I looked over at the perfectly innocent-looking younger man next to me as I put some downward pressure on the vent rope I was holding. I smiled to myself. He was as cherubic looking as I was which meant he’d be good spy material, not that that was likely.
“Hard,” Kris said, not moving to help or take over. “Ten seconds will yield a descent of about two thousand, which takes us into comfort territory.”
I pulled down as hard as I could and counted to ten as I bent over, finally letting up. The rope snapped back as the two sides of the vent slammed shut. It took only a few seconds for the envelope to stabilize and the balloon began to lose altitude.
“Give the gas release a few taps just to help bottom us out,” Kris said, leaning back against the side of the basket and stretching before peering down.
“You know,” he continued, “many first-time riders sit or lay in the bottom of the basket but after a while get up and look out. After that you have to watch them as at this altitude, there’s no feeling of height anymore, so you sometimes will have to keep them from sitting on the edge here.” He rubbed the leather surface that covered the top edge.
“We’ll just fall slowly until we get to about a thousand feet AGL, then we can catch the northerlies and hopefully complete the box.”
“The box?” I asked.
“In ballooning, the neatest maneuver is to use the mets rising and falling through the different wind directions, always hoping to plant the balloon down exactly in the spot where it took off from. The box.”
The wind reacted exactly as Kris described and we floated back toward the fiesta grounds in the distance.
“Ground skimming is neat. As we get closer just bump the gas lever every few seconds and see if you can keep us about fifty feet in the air, high enough to avoid encountering those trees down there.”
I looked down and then did as he instructed, amazed that he would, even under his close supervision, let me guide us along. The ballon was moving in the slight wind, which was more than it had been when we took off.
“We want to get down before the sun is fully up as the desert wind will rise and we don’t want to be dragged along until enough air is exhausted from the envelope to allow us to stop.”
I took in the scene below as we silently, except for an occasional blast from the burners, made it seem like I was in a movie or some other equally strange existence. It was wonderful and I wanted it to go on and on.
“It’s even better out over the real desert but we’ll save that for another day,” Kris remarked, moving to gently change positions with me.
“You’re a natural so you’ll be soloing in no time, then it’s just a matter of some ground school training and you’ll be a pilot like me.”
I moved to stand facing in the direction the balloon was moving, thinking that I would never be like him. He was such an obvious and calm master of the air we were riding in.
The Fiesta Field came under us and Kris pulled first on the vent rope until the basket bumped into the ground and bounced heavily once before he changed ropes and pulled the top out. Almost immediately the basket dropped onto the hardscrabble desert surface, like it was stuck into it. The envelope collapsed and Kris jumped over the basket lip.
“Come on, we have to gather in about four hundred pounds of nylon before the wind picks up and pulls us along with it.”
Suddenly vehicles showed up and parked all around the open area surrounding the collapsed envelope, my Range Rover included. The chase crew members quickly jumped out and began the work of folding the giant expanse of nylon into a ball and then forcing it into a canvas bag that seemed way too small to hold it.
Kris pulled out a bottle of champagne and worked to pop the cork. Almost mysteriously, the work stopped, and plastic cocktail glasses were passed around.
Kris poured and then toasted to my first ride in a balloon. I sipped and reflected on the fact that I had somehow not known a thing about such a great sport or the wonderful people who were involved with it.
One of the crew handed me my car keys.
“Lunch tomorrow?” Kris asked.
“You better believe it,” I answered, quickly, having a million questions for the man but now they could wait. How had he come to arrive at the office and invite me to go ballooning would be at the top of my list.
I carefully worked my way across the fiesta grounds, trying to avoid spots that might have debris or sharp rocks that might penetrate the Rover’s tires. The office was only minutes away.
Once there, I let myself in. Ballooning was over and it was not even seven a.m..
I sat at my desk and then leaned back in my swivel chair in order to take in the experience I’d just had. It was an astounding day and it hadn’t really started yet.
The phone rang. There was no staff but it was quiet enough so I could hear the ring all the way out in the clerical area. My own phone didn’t ring, as calls had to be put through by Pat or another staff member.
I hit the button that was lit, expecting some nonsense supplier or client to be calling in so early.
“John McCain here,” the voice said, even before I could say hello.
“Yes, sir?” I replied, shocked out of my wonderful reverie into the balloon experience.
“I’m coming to Kirkland Air Force Base, and I’d like to visit with you…as long as you leave that automatic at home or wherever you might keep it.”
I was struck dumb. What could the man possibly want? I’d said no to the project he didn’t seem to have wanted to be a part of in the first place. Why, other than the rescue project, would John McCain want to visit with me, which also meant he didn’t want to talk about whatever it was over the phone.
“When?” I asked, knowing that there was no way I was going to deny the famed captain, who, in spite of what others might think, was a true hero to me.
He’d made it through five years of torture for his country. I’d made it through only thirty days, and so there was no way I could not do anything but be beholden to the man.
“This afternoon, over at that strange hangar,” he replied. “Say, two o’clock, or so.”
“Yes, sir,” I said but I was talking to a dead phone.
I looked at the receiver before I put it back on its cradle. My hand went automatically toward it as my mind thought about my wife and my promise, but I stopped it to pick up the instrument again and dial. Not telling her of the visit did not violate my oath. What might come of that meeting might, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. I wasn’t going and I wasn’t about to lose my wife or her confidence in my keeping my word. The image of Smedley Butler came into my mind.
“All the way, up the hill, Smedley, you and me,” I breathed out, sitting back in the chair once more and clasping my hands together as I thought. Ballooning was no longer on my mind.
I tried to relax but the unknown nature of my new existence didn’t allow for that luxury. I still had no training and there seemed not even to be any discussion about that. McCain was not a fan of the rescue and that was in my favor, because no matter what Mary and I did to avoid the mission the forces we were now aligned with and run by were powerful almost beyond our comprehension. I knew deep down that I could likely be made to do anything.
I went to work on the stack of paperwork on my desk which took up enough time for Pat and the staff to show up. She came through the open door with a note in her hand. I smiled and took it, noting that she’d stopped at the door to knock on the outside wall next to that door. Times had changed, at least the times between she and I.
“Who’s this from?” I asked, taking the note from her hand and opening it.
“That nice balloon man,” she replied, before turning and leaving.
“You want the door open or closed?” she said, sweetly.
I sighed, wondering if I wasn’t better off with the mean-spirited assistant I’d had before.
The note was from Kris.
“I know you are running the life insurance office here on Rio Grandes,” it began, before going on, “Before we go through all that sales stuff can I just buy a fifty-thousand-dollar policy on myself, twenty-five on my wife and ten on each of my two kids. We can spend lunch talking about other stuff.”
I put the note down on the top of my desk gently, as if getting it ready to be bronzed. It was another totally unbelievable life insurance sale in the making, one that Tom Thorkelson and Chuck Bartok, in their old sales wisdom, would start laughing over if they knew. I was about as much a life insurance salesman as I was a spy. Somehow, I just managed to muddle on by, but the potential of the coming hostage rescues effort was nothing to take so lightly. I could see no way that men would not die pursuing a successful mission outcome.
I left the note, reminding myself to fill a file with some applications for our lunch on the next day. Lucky’s Cantina was right west on Rio Grande Boulevard not more than a mile, but I’d never been there. I decided to check it out, have a couple of tacos and then head toward the airport to await McCain’s arrival.
The drive was short, so I stopped at the car wash. Ballooning was going to have an effect on the Rover I decided, after having to run the car through the wash twice and it could have taken a third, but I was too impatient to wait.
The hangar was as before and, once having passed through the military base gate with my still valid Marine Corps I.D. card, I drove inside to wait. The New Mexico heat of the sun at midday, blazing down on a vehicle, even a white one like the Rover, was not something to be easily tolerated.
I got out of the car and walked around to wait. There was a phone on the wall so I decided to call my wife about the balloon ride, which she thought was one of my PTSD insanities. There was no convincing her that ballooning had the same mortality as walking down the street did, in fact, less if it was driving down the street.
She answered on the second ring, either because she was waiting for my tardy call or she was ironing, something she loved to do for no good reason I could ever figure out.
We talked about Kris and the experience. All of a sudden, and I’d not been paying attention, the sound of spooling turbines grew to the point where it was hard to talk to her anymore. I’d forgotten where I was.
“Where are you?” she yelled into her phone.
I breathed in and out deeply, before answering.
“At the airport,” I confessed, dreading what she might say next.
“And who are you meeting there?”
I wanted to lie in the worst way, but I knew it wouldn’t fly. My wife was more accurate about tonal quality than the detector I’d had removed from my desk drawer.
“John McCain,” I said, hoping the dying engines of the plane would mangle the words.
The line went dead. I hung the receiver at my side. The day was all of a sudden not going very well.
I looked at the white King Air, recognizing it immediately. Allen Weh’s Charter Services was making a pretty penny off my joining the Bankers Life office next to him. I wondered if I’d be billed again.
The plane door silently flowed outward and up while the stairs slid to the concrete. John McCain eased himself down the stairs, obviously having a hard time holding the cable rails from the damage to his body while he was a prisoner of war. The engines of the King Air spooled all the way down and both propellers stopped rotating at the same time.
“Captain,” I said, putting the phone back on the nearby hook and turning to walk toward him.
“Let’s get back aboard,” he said, having looked around to discover that the big hangar was just that and offered no decent place to sit and have a talk like would be normal inside a regular airport concourse.
Once back on the plane, McCain ever so slowly preceding me, we sat opposite one another in two of the overly lush passenger seats.
“What’s on your mind, Captain?” I asked, steeling myself for what he might reply.
“I’m not a fan of this rescue attempt,” he began, looking out through one of the big porthole kind of windows behind where I sat facing him.
“Men are going to die in attempting to rescue men who are very likely dead. The fact that I’m here is a fluke, and I know it. But I can’t be seen to be opposing this attempt. I’m running for a U.S. Senate seat soon. Marcinko is a crazy person but he means well, not at all like your rather cold and quietly commanding approach nor with your proven capability.”
I was growing uncomfortable listening to the man. I’d been told by my therapist Paul, years before, that people would say to me that I was the smartest man they ever knew and, although that might be true, it also meant that they were either setting me up for a fall or one was already underway. Men in the American culture never admitted to other men that they were smarter than them. It was a ‘tell’ and I should start looking around for the confidence game. I looked around me, remembering his advice. Why was McCain being so complimentary? He wanted something he wasn’t entitled to and that thing might be very costly for me, not even considering the firing squad I was going to face when I got home for first not telling her in advance of the meeting and then second for even listening to McCain about what it was that he wanted.
I said nothing. There’d been no question. I just looked at him expectantly.
“I want you to train the team they’ve assembled,” he said. “There’s a training facility right on the base here that you can use. You don’t go over there at all.”
I listened to McCain’s tone like my wife would have, taking the words apart and putting them back together. It was slight but it was there, the tone of my not being able to face into the fire another time. He would never accuse me of being a coward, but his tone let it be known that in the very back of his mind the suspicion lay there, like a dead pig in the sun.
“Who are the volunteers?” I asked, changing the subject, almost making it so that I was in and wanted to know my team candidates.’
“Some real well-trained men from different parts of special ops teams,” McCain replied, his tone going to enthusiastic.
“Any Vietnam Veterans?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Nah,” he replied, “these are younger guys in better shape.”
I could not help letting out a short cut-off laugh.
“So, you want me to train as a bunch of FNG types who’ve never seen combat, to go into a triple canopy jungle fighting situation after being toughly trained and fully exposed to desert warfare?”
McCain stared at me.
“I know how smart you are,” he concluded, looking me straight in the eyes, doing nothing more than raise my sense of pending doom that those words had been drilled into me meant exactly that. “I don’t intend that these men ever serve anywhere in that zone of nightmare jungle, and I think that you know that.”
“Because you are so concerned for their welfare, and I get that,” I said, delivering the sarcastic sentence as flatly and unemotionally as I could. “I’m Op Con to the CIA in field service, and you already know that.”
“I can get the approvals,” McCain said, with a big smile, as if I was accepting his proposition.
“I have to call my wife and my control officer,” I said, coming to my feet, wanting nothing more than to get out of the plane, the hangar and the airport itself. Having come from the ballooning fiesta field all the way to where I was seemed like a gulf bigger than the Pacific Ocean.
“I’ll call your control officer, while you can assure your wife that you’ll be right here on Kirkland for the entire training period. That will give me time to kill the whole thing and then it’s over.”
He said those words to my back as I fled out of the cabin and down the stairs. I got into the Rover, started it, and drove out of the hangar and then away back through the base gate. I headed for the office but then stopped when I saw the car wash I’d put the Rover through twice before my meeting. I drove in, waited, and then ordered the luxury wash with wax. I needed to wash the whole experience off of me but getting the car really clean would have to do.
Once at the office, I walked through the clerical area without saying a word and on into my office. As expected, a bill for McCain’s flight was already on my desktop. I shrugged. The CIA had holes in it one could drive trucks or airplanes through. I called Herbert without even sitting down. He answered so I gave him McCain’s whole spiel.
“You hit pay dirt with that meeting,” Herbert said as if impressed with my performance.
“What in hell are you talking about Tony?” I asked, in surprise.
“That bit about training inexperienced hot shot jocks in the desert to fight in a jungle situation.”
“Bad news travels fast,” I said, waiting for what might come next.
“Yes, that was truly sound advice, so they want to move the training to a very peaceful part of pacified Vietnam.”
I put the receiver down at my side, trying to recover myself. I hung it up while I could still hear him talking. I waited, still standing. When I could not hear his voice anymore, I hung up the phone and then pushed a button to get an open line to call my wife. I tried to punch in the number, but my fingers would not work right. I pulled my hand back. I had not had combat shakes since being in the Valley. I could not call her. I could not go back to the valley. I could not say no if they made me because without ever saying anything they were holding my wife and my life hostage. I felt like crying, sitting in my chair, but nothing would come to my eyes, with my hand shaking like a wind-blown leaf, hoping that nobody would walk through my open office door and see me in such a state.
Talk about literal highs and lows, you where just put thru the wringer on this day. Don’t know if I where you I would go home for a while, Awesome chapter , again, Keep up the great work and Semper fi LT
Have always to go home. It is what I fought for and then won. My wife is and was my centering force int the universe and I con[t deny that in my life or my writing I realize full well that most writing about such things by men do not include their wives or their input that can be so valuable. thanks for the great comment and the compliment at the end.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim,
Thank you for taking us with you on the balloon. The highest I ever got was 1,250 feet (Not counting airplane rides, cleaning the gutters, etc.). On my 4th jump, I forgot the part about keeping my eyes on the horizon instead of trying to anticipate the landing. Also forgot the Black Hat’s daily instructions to their wives about keeping their feet and knees together.
I didn’t know a hard landing could result in total loss of feeling from the hip to the knee. But I did know that all I needed to do was get out of the plane on the next day’s final jump to get my wings. Mission accomplished. Got total feeling back in about 2 -3 months.
Though you may consider McCain as a “true hero to me.”, mmmm, it seems to me that McCain sees the difference between Marcinko and you: Marcinko “is a crazy person”, useful but crazy and you are a “rather cold, quietly commanding, capable” person, useful but a much better choice, a better ‘tool’ to get the mission done.
And the “fact that I’m here is a fluke” – Really don’t buy that at all. These were the well thought out actions of a rather cold, calculating, capable man. A man who had contacts in the military/CIA, including those needed to get him a ride Weh’s charter service.
So, listening to McCain brought up thoughts about what Paul had told you were methods people use for “setting” others up for doing what they wanted them to do – Not exactly scoring points for the man considered to be a hero, nor anyone else.
Then again, I think the term ‘hero’ is a bit subjective, depending on both the ‘hero’ and individual giving the honor. I’ve always believed that McCain put what was best for the nation ahead of his party. No matter – We all have our flaws. One thing I daily asked God and Jesus is to help me be the best I can – Some days I get close while on others, more than I care to admit, I am lacking, some days sorely lacking. But I, and we, can never stop working towards that goal, no matter what.
Brief thoughts reference the mission: No “Vietnam Veterans”; “a bunch of FNG”; “no combat” experience; training “desert warfare” environment for “a triple canopy jungle” mission? Reference to whatever military professionals (Yes, I’m assuming whoever came up with this plan was smart enough to consult with/get advice from military personal, officer and enlisted, with Vietnam combat and military intelligence experience. Sadly, I think my assumption was incorrect.) made recommendations (Personnel; Training site; Specific training required; Length of training; etc.) for this mission were – How do you politely say f__ked up and really stupid?
Ya’ know, maybe it’s just me, but (I love/hate ‘buts’. They are so useful for turning any situation around 180 degrees, making anything said before the ‘but’ pretty much ‘noise’.) To continue – but if I was talking (?) to someone of lower rank, who I believed was critical to the situation/mission, a S/M that would affect my goal of becoming a Senator and who knows what else, the last thing they would be doing would be getting up and walking out before I was finished with the most important part, allowing me to talk “to my back”. Oh, I forgot – before I dismissed them. But like I said, maybe it’s just me. I’m pretty sure I’d realize, as McCain should have, my presentation/idea didn’t go over ‘gang busters’ and might, just might require a reconsideration/review on my part.
When you talked with Herbert and he said they (?) had taken your “sound advice” and had moved the training, I thought ‘So what part of Vietnam was “pacified” and “very peaceful”?’ Your reaction wasn’t very peaceful.
And it seems they moved closer to their goal – You leading the mission. But maybe that was their plan all along and the meeting with McCain was just a part of prelim-goal to get you there, where the ‘Lt/Junior’ could be aroused from his hellish slumber – To, innocently of course, get you ‘in country’ and during the training, for you/Junior to come to the conclusion that for the mission of bringing home forgotten POWs to have any chance of success required Junior to lead it. And though that would be very f___ed up, sadly I don’t put it passed ‘them’, either then nor now.
Of course I could be completely wrong, have let my Mr. Roger’s twin evil brother Wally, imagination run wild and a number of these things were happening because some folks were just f___ed and stupid. Still sad, but for different reasons.
Enough for now my friend,
Doug
Good God, but you are amazing Doug Danko! I read and then reread and understand most but not all of your analysis and presentation. I would imagine the readers on here would come to the same conclusion and follow you…Like i follow you, not lead you. I am most impressed and thanks for buying the books on the site, that means a lot to me and to Mary who works, as usual, every much effectively in her way in the background…or maybe foreground in your life. I hope so. Real therapy for us PTSD survivors can come in such differential packages.
Your great friend and you mine,
Semper fi,
Jim
How about that, a chapter that answered a question I’d asked in a lost comment.
I had asked if you thought McCain and his legacy had received a raw deal. You stated he was a true hero to you, and I assune that still holds true.
I seldom do editing, and I see no one has jumped on it yet, but “in the morning” is redundant after “7am”
Once again, thank you for a great job. Keep it up Jim.
Thanks Tim, much appreciate the help and the complimentary comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Mr. Strauss, Sir,
My comment today is not about this chapter, and as such, may very well be inappropriate for your comment section. November 11 is rapidly approaching. Although I believe that I have read here in your comments section that “thank you for your service” is not always appreciated, I wish to try. Aside from those soldiers here on your site, I only know 3 who have served. Still, I have strong feelings of gratitude, and a strong desire to convey those feelings to those who have served both in times of peace and especially in times of war. If this comment is perceived as awkward or offensive, please erase it and accept my sincere apologies.
Keith, you can thank me for my service anytime and I will take it like I am taking this comment because I know you
meant it. So many people say it just to pass on by and like be done with that. I always appreciate good intentions it is
just that they are not that common today in our culture and especially now with an administration coming in that has given
vets and military such short shrift. We must all bear down and not go out to do what we used to do!
Semper fi,
Jim
What’s in it for McCain? Did he know where POWs where being held? Was this supposed to help his election? Do you think he was sincere? Many questions LT….
John McCain played his hands close to his chest. All I could do the times I met and then knew him
I never really figured him out. Once, when I did, he just looked at me, turned and physically placed his aide
between us. I was stunned but took the gas a goodbye and left.
Thanks for the great comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim,
What a day that must have been. From joy and elation to being gripped with the PTSD of the thought of going back to the steaming jungles in SE Asia.
I am still very much enjoying going along on the ride you are taking us and so look forward to each installment. I met McCain and talk with him briefly when he came to Charleston, WV when he was running for president during the primary and got a photo op with him and some of my fellow State legislators who were at the luncheon.
blessings to you and yours, my friend. Wishing you a splendid week.
THE WALTER DUKE. Yes, to all your said about McCain. He was complex man and yet there was an element of
sincere truth running through his core. I liked him. Didn’t always respect him, but ever liked him.
Semper fi and thanks for the usual great words at the end of your comment.
My great friend,
Jim
I’m with both Rich Brayer and Col. Homan, above. Five continents have been enough, and I prefer to not remember a lot of things in the past. Wasn’t as lucky as you, as it cost me a good wife, and one not so good.
My drug then was racing, sports cars and airplanes, tho there were a few sailboats and hydroplanes tossed in… These days, with Agent Orange, Tramadol and heart meds play a big part. And making things, right now muzzle loading flintlocks. And my living companions are two dogs and four cats.
McCain was an interesting guy. Didn’t personally like him, but he was the real deal.
Still envious of your ballooning, but you can’t flip them belly up, nor make them twirl on the way down. Bound and determined to get a Light Sport Aircraft!
Jim, your writing continues to smoothly transition. Each new chapter draws one closer, making the reading a pleasant journey. Still waiting for my copies of the earlier “Lion” books.
And write faster! (Even though I received this chapter well before Saturday morning.)
You didn’t get books? Damn. Address text to 2625815300 and I will get off all four and sign and inscribe them. Mary will no doubt claim you as one of her sales…she’s such a possessive thief. Please do that as soon as you read this response. How that happened I have no idea but then I’m not complaining to customer service either because both of us know who runs that department!
Semper fi, my special friend (who I still pray for all the time).
Jim
LT, it obvious they are slowly manipulating you back in country no matter what. They want you to lead a mission they already know is dead before it begins. I wonder what John McCain gets out of this.
McCain hated the rumors that he had talked under torture, which of course he had to, but he did not want others coming forward to testify to that, particularly when he was running for asset in the ‘senate. I understood and still do.
Thanks for the great comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
“McCain” ! Just saying that name in the context of your story reminds me of the Jerry Stiefield show when he would holler “Neuman” !! I don’t believe either was said as a welcome 😉
The airballoon sounds like a pleasurable pastime especially as a stress relief James.
On the cliff once again , keep ’em coming …
Semper Fi
I love that Seinfeld sequence and the way Neuman’s name was pronounced. Real life without it being real. McCain was much more complex than Neuman in the series of course and much harder to either truly like or dislike. He was a PTSD mix of identities and always changing from one to another.
Thanks for the great comment and the compliment of course.
Semper fi,
Jim
Good Chapter. Just a couple typos 1st paragraph Lept or Leaped not leap. Paragraph when you landed back on Fiesta Field basked Lip not Lep
thanks for the help Tom and he the help is always appreciated.
Semper fi,
Jim
Oh, my! My oldest daughter was visiting with me and we read this chapter together. She has read some of your other books which I shared with her and we both felt the deep emotions that are running through your mind as you contemplate your future. How is Mary going to receive the information that the training will be in Nam? Can’t wait for the next chapter! We are truly looking forward having you as our guest on 12/191
Tom Thorkelson, a definitive personality and life force in my recovery from the war without ever knowing at the time how much his guidance meant and still means to me these days. I have to speak in L.A. on the 18th of December (quantum entanglement seminar) so I will get to see Tom and meet as much of his extended family who are around Newport Beach. It will be such a delight. I am alway smiling when I write of him in these works. I know he loves to be in the books but can’t really say so. Only artists and a few notables make it through life and leave a permanent imprint on into the future. An artist like me can also do that for someone like Tom, as I have done.
Thanks Tom and the family that you’ve supported and who have supported you back.
Semper fi (Batman…the moniker he was named as a Marine Pilot).
Jim
From the exhilarating high, no pun intended, of the balloon ride to the thoughts of that evil wicked valley are almost too much to imagine. hope this plan is never implemented and if it is, you are not involved in any way shape or form. Stay strong and focused James.
I’m here Charles so that should tell you something. Marcinko is not here but he didn’t die in the mission either Thanks for caring and for being such a great backer and supporter of what I’m working to do here.
Semper fi, my north Wisconsin friend,
Jim
Mary is an Angel! McCain was a hero of mine, but this interaction shows the lengths that politicians are willing to go just to keep up appearances. Your description of the terror coursing through your body literally made me breakout in a cold sweat! Great work James! Semper Fi!
Thanks Jack in writing such a poignant and meaningful comment in response to the chapter. I read stuff like you wrote here and am surprised. I never know how parts of the writing will be taken. Is a PTSD attack like that a sign of weakness or is it really a sign of the responding to threats and growing form the attack in new strength? To this day it is hard to tell. But here I am as tough as old boot leather and motoring on. Thanks for the usual heavy duty support and interesting comment…not to mention the great compliment.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
You make the reader or allow the reader to understand and feel the raw emotion of fear.Most men don’t know it and fewer still can make people comprehend the feeling of it from the shakes to the dr mouth fear in an insurance office but yo you it was back in the bush
what a powerul emotion just the thought of goong back was parlyzing you
I admire your courage sharing such a raw snd painful experience
Men can say they fought in a war but very few can or will share the horrible fear of PTSD
You are a unique man and itis honor to call you friend
Semper fi, mon ami
Thanks so much Rich for this in depth kind of compliment. Touches and reaches inside me deeply. Thanks for the admiration
and for the compliment after compliment keeping me going on the next chapter this night. Those bought of physical reaction to terror were unsettling and I haven’t had one in years, thank God. If something so uncontrollable occurs then there’s the feeling that one has lost his mind and is it going to come back.
thanks for your understanding and feeling it a bit with me back in time.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
As always I compare your fog of war situation to my interestingly similar but just lost trip through life! I had no employment direction. Just wind blown opportunities that I grasp at blindly. I just marched off toward the single adventures that seemed to appear as saviors! Your way seems better, I think!
But I just had obligations without a conscience.
Luckily I don’t have your ability to remember most.
You Colonel, are the most honorable man I know, and have known from some time.
Your ‘wandering’ through your many places and adventure which kept you so far from home for
so long could not be properly appreciated but by another creature from the same corral. Mine was the same
but different and fortune plays such a huge role. Note that I could not just quit after I healed up either.
The fortune of being absorbed into the agency at that time was that my missions were usually quite short and
hurtful. Seventeen major hospital stays in 17 years, but I’d be shipped home to be with my family, regenerate and then be send out again.That was strange good fortune. Once Mary was about to kill me because I made her go and fill a codeine prescription for the pain drug so I could navigate well enough to get on the departing plane. She was steamed but she did it, throwing the bottle at me and stomping off at the airport. Thanks for being my great friend and writing such truth on here as you generally do.
Semper fi,
Jim
Did you just let the cat out of the bag with the comment about Mary getting you the codeine prescription? Heading back would be tough for all of us. If I had to go back the DUSTOFF helicopter I was on as a medic would have to be armed with M-60’s this time.
Yes, I did let that out of the bag. I had some drug issues I had to deal with and my drug of choice was codeine of the time
particularly since you could go into almost any pharmacy abroad and by it by the gram in powder form. I was lucky it wasn’t heroin and of course that F shit hadn’t been invented yet.
thanks for the great comment and picking up on that one.
Semper fi,
Jim