The one thing Iād come to understand about whatever it was I was supposed to be doing for the Western Whitehouse, at first with Haldeman and now no doubt with Mardian, was immediacy. When people in their positions wanted something, they wanted it right now. Physically and psychologically I was beaten down for the day and only wanted to go back to the apartment on Cabrillo Avenue in downtown San Clemente and be with my wife and daughter, at least for a while.
āWhen?ā I asked Mardian.
His eyebrows went up, and he lowered the glass from which heād just taken a big drink.
āWhen what?ā he replied, his big bushy brows knitting.
āThe mission,ā I said. āWhen is the mission?ā
āStrange question,ā Mardian responded, a smile fleetingly appearing across his facial features. āDonāt you want to know what the mission is?ā
I noted the cracking of his cheeks from the smile. It wasnāt because of his age, as he wasnāt that old. I figured that he didnāt smile very much, and if he did it was the rueful kind of thing heād just flashed me.
āWhatās the mission, sir?ā I asked, not exactly dreading but not looking forward to his answer with any enthusiasm either.
I used the word āsirā for the first time, as my being inside the residence and at the poolside told me that Mardian was a very powerful figure indeed.
āI want you to go to D.C. and carry some papers, on your person, not in a briefcase or any of that. Youāll be met at the airport, the papers delivered, unread by you, and then youāll return the way you came.ā
āWhen?ā I repeated, āand am I flying government air?ā
Mardian laughed out loud, before taking another swig of his drink.
āThatās funny,ā he said, putting his drink down on the flat concrete surrounding the still pool. āNo, you fly commercial tomorrow morning, from Orange County Airport to Washington National, and then come home. Tickets have been arranged for. You leave at nine a.m. arrive in D.C. at one and should be back by five. Thatās it. Government air requires arrangements and documentation, neither of which you will need or process through.ā
I sat on the edge of my chaise lounge, wondering what I was being asked to do, in reality. What was in the documents? Who would meet me? How would the meeting go down? The questions came at me, generated by my own mind. All I really wanted to do was get home, however.
āHere are the tickets,ā Mardian said, handing me a thick envelope.
I opened the envelope and immediately saw that my new name was John S. Cotton.
āCotton?ā I asked, in surprise.
āThe Cotton Estate,ā Mardian replied, flashing another of his enigmatic smiles. āThatās what the property here was called before Nixon bought it, and oh, tell no one where you are going, when or any of that, much less why, and that includes your wife and any other friends or family members. Oh, and that includes telling anyone you are going at all.ā
I almost laughed. My wife? I would, and did, tell my wife everything. Her judgment was better than my own and sheād already paid the price for earning her way in her endurance of what sheād been through because of marrying me. The way I saw it she was entitled to full disclosure about everything, but Mardian couldnāt be told that, I knew.
āWhere do I pick up the documents?ā I asked, going straight to the point, as I wanted to get out of the presidential residence area as fast as I could. The serene poolside area, with the surf lapping beyond the bushes and the quiet Spanish home sitting nearby, was unsettling. I felt like I didnāt deserve to be in the place I was.
āIn the limo,ā Mardian said, surprising me, because, generally, the limos were only used to transport notables, and I was anything but one of those.
He reached under the thin mat covering the nylon strap structure of the chaise lounge he was sitting on. One of the other people who drive the limos will deliver you and then be there when you return. Donāt open the envelope, and donāt share the fact that you carry, or carried it, to anyone, ever.ā
Mardian took a white envelope out from beneath the cushion of his chaise lounge and held it in front of him but not in such a way that I got the idea he was going to hand it to me. The envelope was very thin, which was unexpected. It wouldnāt even create the slightest of bulges if carried in my sports coat pocket. The envelope was sealed with Scotch Tape across the flap. There was nothing written on the outside of it that I could see.
āGo,ā Mardian ordered, placing the envelope on top of the cushion next to him, and then looking out across the pool to where the big windows were set into the side of the Spanish home.
I looked over at the same opaque windows, wondering if Nixon was standing and peering through those windows back at me. There was no way to know. I got up and headed back the way Iād come.
It took only minutes to get home after the strange meeting with Mardian. I knew my wife would want to know each and every detail of what Iād seen inside the residence, even though I hadnāt really been inside. I was headed for D.C. in the morning, and I needed to spend a little time at home getting ready and getting over the occurrences of the day before. When I got home, however, my wife wasnāt there. That meant only one thing to me since she seldom went anywhere with the neighborās wife next door and had no car of her own. I was home from the beach and she was on the beach. Julie loved to play near the lapping extent of the expiring energy of the incoming waves, that came in just to the south side of the pier. Mary was, no doubt, tanning herself while reading a book and keeping a close watch over Jules.
There was no point in staying home alone. I changed into my workout gear, a short-sleeve shirt, and running shorts put on my flip-flops, and headed for the same beach.
My wife and daughter were easy to find. Without much comment, I got out of my flip-flops and took off running. It was exactly two-and-a-half miles to the blank metal signpost that stuck out of the sand just down from the compound residence. On a hard flat sand day at low tide, I could make the run in under thirty-five minutes but the tide was in and the surf slightly up so I had to run in the deep hot sand just beyond the waterās top edges.
The harder I ran and the more I got into my running āgrooveā I realized that I didnāt really need to share the misgivings I was having about my interior thought process. I wasnāt beyond revealing weakness to my wife but doing so if I thought I could handle the process myself was unnecessary and quite possibly a needless burden or source of concern to her. I worked what had happened since the morning of the day before through my mind, as I ran. The faster and harder I ran, the better I felt. Maybe the flashback was simply a common fleeting thing among men whoād been through what Iād been through.
When I got back to where Julie still played near the water I was a sweating mess. I swam out into the surf, where I stayed for another half an hour. I realized what I did have to tell my wife was that Iād be being picked up at eight a.m. by one of the estate limos, not that sheād miss that little detail when it occurred. D.C. and back in under six hours might bear some explaining but I had little to give her about that since I didnāt know very much myself. The mystery of the white envelope would have to wait until I knew more.
After digging a hole and then building a sandcastle with Julie, told her what I was going to be up to, but she merely nodded and went on reading whatever novel she was deeply engrossed in. I decided to run home, shower, dress in uniform, and patrol the beach for a while. I wanted as much alone time in the Bronco as I could get before the coming new reserves took over, even if they were supposedly my reserve force.
Steve Bro was an unassuming young man, about my height but much thicker in the body. He reminded me of a smaller version of the Zero tower lifeguard named Bob Elwell, whom I’d met earlier. Steve wore large horn-rimmed glasses, however. My encounter was different with him, although the word ādifferentā was taking on much more expansive and deeper meanings to me as I tried to center on being back in the ārealā world. Steve drove his yellow Jeep right across the Bronco’s path, just after I got through the gates and tried to turn toward where my wife and daughter frolicked on the sand. His Jeep blocked my way unless I wanted to either drive into the interior fence protecting the nearby train tracks or motor out into the surf, which was pounding the shoreline at near high tide.
I stopped the Bronco and idled the V8, without getting out. Instead, I sat and waited. Bro stepped down from his bright yellow Jeep, which had no cabin or external protections from either the sun or the elements, unlike the Bronco.
āSo, youāre the new reserve assigned to the old, but now new, beach patrol?ā he said, in a knowing and conclusionary way, instead of stating what he said as a question.
I didnāt know how to answer him. I nodded my head. His warm. welcoming smile was a clone of Elwellās smile, his eyes flashing the same glint of intellect but with a hint of flint, Bob Elwellās hadnāt had.
āSteve Bro,ā he said, in a tone that made his name sound like one I should already know.
Bro stuck out his hand, exactly as Elwell had done.
Before shaking it, I thought of the other three guards Iād met earlier at the station and their treatment of Captain Byerly. Neither Elwell nor Bro were cut from that cloth, I realized.
āWhat am I supposed to call you?ā Bro asked, the smile remaining on his face as we dropped our hands.
I thought about all the nicknames Iād held so far in my life. In elementary school, everyone, including the Maryknoll nuns had called me Shadow, since I was always to be found with my brother. I became known as his shadow. In Vietnam, itād been Junior and Flash. None of them seemed to apply.
āThey call me Beachboy at the Western White House,ā I replied, almost instantly regretting what Iād said, so I added: ābut I donāt much like it.ā
āBeachboy it is,ā Bro replied, laughing openly.
Steve and I chatted about almost nothing at all until he brought up Vietnam. He hadnāt gone for a variety of reasons and I listened without comment. I didnāt care but didnāt let on. I appreciated all things living, including him. If heād gone with me I knew heād be dead.
I didnāt want to hang with Steve Bro, at least not yet, and I didnāt want to think about Vietnam. Steve took off in his Jeep and I decided to turn around and head for home, instead of going on patrol. I had other things I could do to take my mind off that subject.
I didnāt bother to change out of my uniform, instead parked the Bronco at the police lot and got into the Volks, which Iād left in a nearby slot.
I drove the thirty-five miles to Santa Ana from San Clemente to visit the police supply shop once more. I’d called in my need for the shop to produce a ‘Reserve Commander’ I.D. tag, to be made in the same brass design as the nametag I’d been required to order when I’d gotten through the academy training. The Volks had a top speed of just shy of 88 miles per hour, so I made the trip, without traffic, and at that top speed in something less than half an hour. My arrival was innocuous and made without announcement as I stepped in and stood in front of the only counter. There was a young woman across from me who I’d never seen before. I was about to ask for the guy whoād been my previous contact there but then thought better of it.
“I’m from San Clemente police and I came for the Reserve Commander tag I ordered earlier,” I said.
“Oh, you’re that guy,” the woman responded, reaching into a drawer located and built into the other side of the counter. She pulled a small brown envelope out and then pushed it gently across the top of the counter.
I clutched the small envelope in my left hand and then asked about the bill.
“U.S. government account,” the woman said as if that revelation was somehow very important.
All I did was shrug, wondering if anybody seeing the bill at the compound (if that was really where the bill might end up) would figure out that the San Clemente Police Department wasnāt in any way affiliated with the feds when it came to paying the bills. I took the new tag and left. Once I got to my car I opened the envelope. I read the engraved printing on the tag. It read, in very tiny print across the top of it; ‘reserve,’ but the main engraving, four times as large and more deeply indented into the polished brass, read simply: “COMMANDER.”
I liked the title, a lot, but frowned, before starting the Volks. I thought of taking the tag and going back into the shop in order to have another one generated that might have the word āreserveā engraved a bit larger but then decided to run with what I had. I was a nobody on the police force, I knew. I was the lowest grade of patrolman and that was if I wasnāt an even more lowly āreserveā myself. There was going to be trouble, I knew, when I wore the tag on my uniform shirt, just as there had been, for different reasons, when Iād worn my decoration ribbons on the front of my Marine Officerās uniform while still full time in the Corps.
āLet the chips fall where they may,ā I whispered to myself, pinning the small but distinctive and shiny tag above the right front pocket of my uniform shirt.
I drove straight home and my wife was home when I got there. Amazingly, and unexpectedly, she didnāt bring up the subject of my mystery trip to Washington, which was odd. Iād never traveled without her since weād been married, except to Vietnam, and the hospital in Japan.
In the morning, well before I had to leave, my only sport coat, in dark blue, a long sleeve white shirt, and khaki pants were waiting for me, all laid out, as if I was going on some job-hunting appointment. I had coffee and then checked out front for the limo, even though it was ten minutes before the appointed hour. The limo was there, sitting well out from the curb, waiting.
I left early and went outside to get into the vehicle. Thankfully, the driver, probably knowing that I was a nobody, didnāt get up and go around the limo to open the rear door for me. In fact, he did nothing but drive away once the door was closed. He never spoke during the drive, which he handled masterfully, although there was no real traffic to test his abilities. I arrived at the small terminal forty minutes before the flight.
I went directly to the correct United Gate to register for the flight.
I could see the plane through the window behind the gate counter. It was a United 727, with a single aisle running up and down the center and three seats on each side in economy class. My row was 27, and I had the window seat. If given the chance Iād have booked the aisle, so as to easily get in and out of the row and also to watch up and down the aisle for securityā¦not that there was much to be done or any place to go if there was a threat.
I had no carry-on and no checked baggage. Presenting my ticket had gotten me a boarding pass without showing any identification, which I didn’t have anyway. The ticket cost the government five-hundred and fifty dollars I saw, which was a lot of money, and that was for what I presumed was coach passage. The passenger in the middle seat was already in his seat. He was younger than me by a few years, sported a short haircut of his very blond hair, and wore a Notre Dame sweatshirt and jeans He spent the few hours of the trip talking to an attractive middle-aged woman who sat next to him in the aisle seat.
Washington National was a busy and densely populated airport. As soon as I got off the plane, I felt the place close in on me. The walk from the tarmac had been uneventful but the airport facility itself was filled with what seemed like seething mobs of unconnected and constantly moving human beings. There were three men stationed on the other side of the open door I walked in through. They all held white cardboard signs with black magic marker letters written on them. One said “COTTON.” I walked over to the unassuming-looking black man holding the sign.
“You Cotton?” he asked, looking skeptical.
I nodded, and then looked around. There was no organization to anything, just people moving every which way in what seemed like one great mass of shifting bodies.
“Do you have it?” the man asked.
I produced the envelope I’d been given and handed it to him.
The man didn’t open the sealed and taped envelope. He simply put it into his pants pocket, handed me the white cardboard sign with my pseudo last name on it, and walked away without saying anything further. I waited a few seconds. It seemed so ridiculous, but then so sensible. How anybody could make anything out of the transfer of the thin plain and innocuous-looking envelope was beyond me, and that must have been part of the plan. I took out the other envelope and confirmed my return flight, which was scheduled for two hours later.
I folded up the cardboard with the letters COTTON hand-printed on its surface and put it into my pocket. I smiled to myself at the thought that the memento might have significance sometime in the future if I wanted to start keeping a diary of my experiences.
Iād received both boarding passes in Chicago but only looked at the one I needed to use to get to D.C. When I read the remaining ticket, I saw the row number of the seat I was assigned and I realized why the round-trip ticket had cost so much. I was in row two. The plane was another 727, as the first one. Row two was in First Class. For some reason, I was going back to Chicago in First Class. I wondered if the flight was totally sold out. I could think of no other reason why Mardian would have spent the extra money just to make me more comfortable, but I wasnāt going to complain.
First Class would be called to board first so I took a seat near the gate the 727 was already parked at. I waited out most of the two hours doing nothing but watching other passengers and those picking up passengers at nearby gates. Just after an attendant showed up to man the gate counter and it seemed likely she would be calling for First Class boarding, I stood up to stretch my legs and get ready. I breathed in and out, not to release any tension but out of boredom. The ājobā I was doing was terribly boring and I wouldnāt travel doing it again without taking along some reading material.
āWould Mr. John S. Cotton please report to the United ticketing desk,ā came out over the paging system.
I looked around me in disbelief. Who knew I was in D.C. under that assumed name? Only Mardian, and United Airlines. I walked the short distance to the gate attendant.
āIāve been paged,ā I said, as no other passengers stood before her small counter. āIām supposed to go to the ticketing counter, which is way back down the concourse. Is there some problem that can be handled here? Weāre going to board soon.ā
āIāll check,ā the woman said, going to work on her computer. Her check only took a few seconds. āNothing I can see here. Someone must have left you a message at the ticketing counter but I canāt access it from here.ā
Bob Mardian was my only other suspect. If it was anything to do with my ticket home or United then the gate attendant would know. Why would he page me at the ticketing counter?
I turned and began walking back down the concourse toward the main ticketing counter. It was a good thousand feet away. The boarding announcement for my flight came out through the speakers as I walked as fast as I could without running. I wasnāt going to miss my flight no matter what the message was.
I arrived at the counter out of breath.
I’m John S. Cotton,ā I said to one of the available attendants behind the counter. āI was paged to come here.ā
āOh, I see,ā the woman said, walking a few feet to another part of the counter and retrieving a United envelope.
I opened it. There were only a few words written on the single sheet of paper: āCall me when you reach Orange County,ā the message said. There was no name or salutation at all, but then there really didnāt have to be. I knew whoād messaged me, but for the life of me couldnāt figure out why, unless when I got back to Orange County I had to go somewhere else before heading for home.
I rushed to get back to the gate. I made it with ten minutes or so to spare. When I got aboard I found my seat easily, as I was the only one of five First Class passengers aboard and there was no one in the seat next to my own. I sat down and relaxed, getting the strange message out of my thoughts. Iād deal with Mardian when I got back.
The flight was fine, with free food and everything. Following the snack and with the aircraft reaching altitude, I tried to nod off for a bit but felt the need to use the washroom first. I unbelted, got up, and moved the short distance to the single First-Class bathroom, but stopped in front of the plastic door. A small sign was taped to the doorās surface that read; āout of order.ā I sighed, which the only First-Class flight attendant nearby heard. She turned from whatever she was doing.
āYouāll have to use the coach bathrooms located at the back of the plane,ā she said, with a sympathetic smile, her right index finger needlessly pointing toward the back of the plane.
I turned and began to make my way to the rear, where there was a small line formed in the aisle, made by a few other coach passengers waiting to take turns using the only two functioning bathrooms aboard. I looked to my right, as I waited and was more than surprised. Sitting at the window in one of the last rows, in the window seat, with his face mostly averted, sat the blond kid Iād flown next to when coming into D.C. only hours earlier.
My mind raced. Suddenly, I didnāt have to use the washroom anymore. I turned slowly, trying to draw no attention to myself, and made my way back to my seat at the front of the plane. I sat down, leaned the thing as far back as the seat would allow, and then closed my eyesā¦not to sleep or nap, but to think.
The same kid was on the plane. There could be no coincidence that substantial I could come up with. The kid had flown into D.C. and then gotten aboard my flight back to Orange County two hours later, so heād likely never left the airport either. The call. I thought about the message from Mardian, with no name or number accompanying it. The kid had to get on the plane but I would have seen him, as I was in First Class at the very front and would be boarding earliest. I realized then that I was only in First Class so I wouldnāt interact with him. The call had been to draw me away so he could get aboard without my seeing him. I would also be deplaning before him. Only the bathroom being shut down had changed everything and revealed so much.
I was not to be trusted. Iād worried about being trusted when I could see no reason why I was placed in such a position among people who gave me little indication that they trusted anyone on the planet at all. I was not trusted, as was being graphically demonstrated to me, at least by Mardian. However, I wasnāt really be allowed to know I wasnāt trusted. The boy had probably tailed me all the way to the point where I delivered the sealed envelope. The envelope had never been in my possession without someone elseās eyes monitoring its every move. I opened my eyes and canted my seatback upright. I was in no danger that I could see or think of so I wasnāt emotionally charged or upset. I was just contemplative and inquisitive. Why such arcane plans had been laid and executed was beyond my ability to figure out.
If the kid was trusted to watch my every move on the supposed āmissionā then why wasnāt he simply used as the messenger? The only part of the whole mission, if, in fact, the mission was over when I arrived back at the Orange County Airport, that was seemingly apparent was the likely import of the message, or whatever it was, that Iād delivered inside that envelope. Much more expense, planning, and thought had gone into getting that envelope to D.C. than I would ever have thought before finding the bathroom in First Class out of order. I was playing in a game I didnāt understand and with players far beyond my experience or capability. Lingering in the back of my mind, as I waited for the flight to be over, was a developing conclusion that attributability might be involved. If something went wrong, no matter what, then who would be accountable? I was an FNG all over again and, somehow, I had to adroitly dance my way through the early days of my ācombatā period without getting myself and my family killed off socially, financially, or physically.
I got off the plane but didnāt head for the nearest telephone. For one thing, although I knew the general number for the operator at the Western White House, I didnāt know any number exclusive to Bob Mardian. I walked out of the terminal entrance and immediately saw the limo. Once more I got in and was whisked away. I said nothing to the driver and he didnāt say anything to me all the way back to my place on Cabrillo. Once home, I got out of the car and it took off, no doubt headed back for the compound. I realized I was going there, as well. I was inexorably drawn. I hadnāt made the phone call Iād been instructed to make in the message. It didnāt matter whether I had a number for Mardian or not. I couldnāt leave things the way they were.
I went inside to change into my uniform. I felt like I was getting into a set of armor. Maybe it was the last time Iād wear it, I thought. Maybe Iād lasted less than a day as the āreserve commander.ā
My wife wanted to know what was wrong with me, so I told her about the mission and the details of how it had gone off. Her take, almost instantly given, shocked me.
āThey were testing you,ā she concluded. āThere was no message. Youāre not important enough to carry presidential messages or much of any other kind. Go to the compound, since from what you say it appears you passed the test. Maybe thereās a real job in all of this after all.ā
I finished getting ready and took off for the compound. I was there in minutes, waved through into the parking lot, out of the Volks, and then stepped through the door that was opened for me before I got to it.
I walked straight to Halde
manās desk, but on approach, quickly observed he wasnāt at his desk. He was almost always at the same desk, at least since Iād been moving in and out of the building. Ehrlichman was sitting at his own desk nearby so I diverted, intending to question him about how I might reach Mardian, even if he was still at the compound.
I didnāt get the chance.
Ehrlichman pointed toward the side door. āResidence pool,ā he said, his facial features expressionless.
My shoulders slumped. Not the residence again. Bob Mardian had to be there waiting. What could he possibly have to say, other than berating me for not calling him on a number I didnāt even have?
I went through the door, then the gate through the small wall. Tim, the dog, was nowhere to be seen. I walked around the corner of the house. He was there.
It was a setting exactly like had occurred the day before. Even the same drink seemed to be in Mardianās left hand. I stopped short of the chaise lounge Iād been told to sit on before but made no other move. I stood at near attention, waiting for what the ādirty tricksā division head might have to say. The man looked up but didnāt order me to sit down, as heād done previously.
āTomorrow, at nine hundred hours youāll drive me to El Toro.ā
My relief was palpable but short-lived.
āWhen I arrive there, Iāll inform you of your second mission.ā
Ā stared into his eyes. There seemed like some sort of a smile behind them like he was having a good time twisting, turning, and teasing me, but I knew from what Iād observed so far, in my brief contact with the man, that there didnāt seem to be a lot of good humor in him.
I thought of a dozen questions to ask but didnāt get even one out.
āGo,ā he said, just like heād done the day before.
When is the THE COWARDLY LION, Book Two, Chapter VIII going to come out?
Published late last night.
Love this stories so much. When will the next chapter be out? Iāve found myself past few weeks checking the site twice a day for it!
Jim, I have a big problem with your writing: You attract my attention entirely, making me eager to keep reading – then drop the hammer as the chapter ends, making me wait for the next installment!
You’ve certainly lead an interesting life, in one situation after another. In some ways I don’t envy you a bit, as mine has been also. Hard for me to have put down roots with all the moving hither and yon. And yeah, PTSD surely raises it surly head, pushing here, pulling there. Hard to maintain friendships, or relationships, for that matter.
Ol’ Agent Orange keeps bee-bopping along – sometimes more pain than I feel I can tolerate, then I think of others and what they have been through, and somehow manage to keep hanging in there. Looking at hip joints being replaced in the next month or two. Not a pleasant thought for one who lives alone.
So, I thank you for the distraction, wondering how you are going to get through the next situation, then the one after that. Write faster!
Semper Fi, my friendly author.
Thanks Craig for this very perceptive comment, plus its depth.
Reread it several times. Thanks for the compliments and also for this kind of comment written on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
The A Shau Valley was relentless on everyone it seems LT. I look at any writeup I find to see if it may be someone I knew and found this.
On May 21, 1967, he was shot down in Quang Nam Province, South Vietnam while flying as a pilot on UH-1C gunship 65-09480, assigned to the 281st Assault Helicopter Company. Walter was listed as missing in action. During this time he was promoted to Chief Warrant Officer (CWO).
The town of Freehold established a memorial of crosses near the downtown area for all of the Freehold residents who were killed or missing in action during the Vietnam conflict.
Synopsis (from the POW Network) as to the circumstances behind being listed as MIA:
Walter F. Wrobleski was the pilot of a UH1C gunship on an extraction mission in the A Shau Valley on May 21, 1967. He sighted the patrol he was to extract and other gunships accompanying Wrobleski established an orbit overhead.
Wrobleski was making a strafing run when his helicopter was hit by a burst from a heavy caliber machine gun, and the engine stopped. The aircraft immediately received more fire, causing it to go out of control and crash. It rolled down a ravine, and because of the intensity of enemy fire, other choppers could not get close enough to see if there were survivors.
At 3:57 p.m. the chopper exploded and started to burn. An Air Force search and rescue aircraft attempted to drop a paramedic team near the crash site, but were unable to maintain a hover to do so. Later, a Marine CH46 helicopter rescued one individual alive from the site. Subsequently, two other men from the incident were hoisted out under heavy enemy fire. Not realizing the two were on the lines, the aircraft, receiving fire, attempted to evade fire, dragging the hoist through the trees. The two men were knocked off the hoist.
Rescue aircraft continued to orbit the area and flashed signals to the ground. Those signals were answered from the recovery area and then from a light from the crash site. Because of the terrain and the short time between sightings, it was believed the signals could have been from the same individual.
On May 22, a Vietnamese Ranger company that had been inserted into the area located one of the individuals and had him evacuated by helicopter. The next day the Rangers located the other individual who walked out with them. Two American advisors who were with the Ranger unit made a thorough search of the wreckage and the surrounding area trying to find evidence of human remains. They believed at that time that the Viet Cong had not visited the site because of items they found that the Viet Cong would normally have salvaged.
No sign of Wrobleski was ever found. He is listed as missing in action.
Wow! Now that’s a comment of worth for certain. Thanks so much for such a revelation of fact and emotion. I got it and I know others on this site will get it too.
Semper fi, and I can’t thank you enough.
Jim
So it seems you weren’t really flying solo to D.C. after all Lt.,
you just didn’t know it at first !! Good catch seeing that young man in the back of the plane and putting it all together as you did.
The mystery days lay ahead…. ??
Can’t wait š
SEMPER Fi
There was a lot going on back then that was mostly behind the veil kind of junk.
It was interesting to sort of a ‘house mouse’ there and now to relate small details that
are never brought up or brought to light by anybody else…not that I’ve read anyway.
Thanks for the enthusiasm and compliment in your writing….
Semper fi,
Jim
LT/Jim,
Great chapter!
Dirty tricks division of the Nixon administration…
Can’t wait to read more–and see how you trapse through this dung filled barnyard and keep your boots clean.
*************
Having thought about YOUR life (as glimpsed through “Thirty Days Has September” series and “The Cowardly Lion”) as well as my own life, I came to the conclusion a few years back that life’s pivotal events and happenings are chucked full–in some combinations–of being in the 1. right place at the right time, 2. wrong place at the wrong time, 3. right place at the wrong time and 4. wrong place at the right time. How we handle each of these four situations will make or break us.
Even in those “wrong place at the wrong time” situations that are thrust upon us, some of us can–and do–manage to successfully navigate those horrid and hellish situations and make the best of (or at least survive) those situations.
We all experience and navigate each of those combinations of “time/place.” I must say that your writings of events in your life should be required reading for the younger generation. Your personal story is inspirational. What you have faced and how you rose to the various “time/place” occasions and tackled what was placed before you and how you made the best of even bad situations is commendable, to say the least.
You are an astounding character, for sure. And a most admirable one who uses his thinking and analytical skills to the fullest.
I would suggest that when we–your readers–are facing thorny problems and moral dilemmas in our personal pathways of life, we should all say to ourselves WWJD (“What Would Jim Do”). How you have lived your life gives us a good blueprint to follow.
Keep the chapters coming!
Walter, I put this comment up on the Facebook site that gets much more traffic. It’s about the most complimentary comment I’ve ever
gotten. WWJD. Unreal! Through this litany of life that I’ve been writing about (all the books published and the ones coming are mostly about the realities I have lived through, rather than fiction) there are plenty of sequences where I not only got into pretty tough situations but also made some really bad or dumb decisions. Real life. No matter how smart a person is, there is always the element of life experience, and you can’t accumulate, hold or retain all life experience out here. The most brilliant person in the world can fall prey to the simplest of bar room tricks…unless the person’s brilliance allows them to know enough not to play the game. I was with a true genius in New Orleans once who thought he could beat a bar room trickster. The man bet him a hundred dollars what he could tell the genius where he got his shoes. My genius buddy trotted out a hundred dollar bill and whispered to me that he’d purchased his shoes in England at a private shoe maker on New Bond Street. I told him not to play. He asked me why. “Because this is what he does.” My buddy lost his hundred when the man said: “You got them shoes on your feet.”Thanks for much for this great compliment and also the loyalty and continuing support you have given me through these last years….
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Thanks for keeping them coming. Always the high point of the day when I get a new chapter!
Now that’s a great compliment, if I may say so. It does take a great deal of motivation to continue…as the more I publish the further I get behind,
except for that I make signing the books. Amazon and Barnes and Noble now pay so terribly to authors. Anyway, I’m just finished with the first two
pages of Chapter VIII…and people like you Brad are making it all happen.
Semper fi,
Jim
You’re slowly being drawn into the snake pit of foul play. My guess that they chose a Marine because they knew you could be trusted. I, too, share all things with my wife! Keep your head up Jim, you’ll come out ahead!!
Thanks Leo, and yes, obviously I made it on through because I am here writing on this site.
Appreciate you being so inside the story, though!
Big compliment to the writing. Much appreciated too.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks for another great chapter. Semper Fi!
Thanks a lot Michael, as compliments like yours keep me going on into the next chapter when I finish one. I am writing VIII right this minute,
with only a break to reply to comments, which I do as soon as I can.
Semper fi,
Jim
I have been wondering about The Boy series. Enjoyed this book. Hoping to see you writing a follow up to this first novel as it seems to have a lot of legs left. When you have time-Ha. Great story .
The second novel in the series is published and can be had at Amazon or by letting me know and sending a check if you want a signed copy.
The second novel is called the Warrior, the third is the the Chief and then there’s one more to be written to finish.
Thanks for asking about it and thanks for liking the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
Man, talk about twists and turns, webs we weave, etc
I am hoping to find out if the aircraft lavatory was was really out of order, or another player just stepped onto the stage!! From what I recall from the time, I never did take a liking to Haldeman, always thought he was a sneaky so-and-so! Thanks LT.
Man oh man, I do enjoy getting some of these comments. Back then, through time and even near this present I never considered the fact that the broken bathroom might be another ruse,
maybe by some opposing force. Interesting to think that deeply and that twisted!
Thanks for that. I don’t know the answer to that, of course, as the flight was never discussed again with anyone.
Semper fi, and thanks for the great comment.
Jim
I was fortunate enough to be busy enough not to check my email. When I did there were 2 not 1 chapter waiting for me!!! If they came any faster I would never get anything done! Thanks again for keeping me on my toes and for another awesome segment to read!!!
Thanks a lot Johnny, as I put your comment on my other sites. Nice compliment, I’ll say!
Semper fi,
Jim
Reminds me of a story a good friend told me. He was at that time an Army Captain ready to leave the service. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do but saw an ad recruiting for the CIA. He applied and was told to meet at a certain room in an office building for his interview. He arrived and went to the floor but the room number did not exist. He walked the hall several times but there was no such number. He started to leave, hesitated, and said to himself nah no way. Went back down the hall and opened the janitors closet door. A man was sitting there on a barrel and said. Mr F……. I presume? He had passed his first test.
Thanks for your personal stuff on here. Always helps to be fully involved and I’m so happy that my writing makes you recall such things!
Semper fi,
Jim
Holy cow, Jim! I’m about to fall off of my seat almost like when one of my pilots decided to make a tach approach on one of our DUSTOFF missions without giving anyone notice. That was the closest I came to falling out of our helicopter. Great writing!
Thanks Cary. Neat, concise and meaningful compliment, as well as some of your own personal stuff.
Much appreciated.
Semper fi,
Jim
Getting fast paced and curiously interesting. LT, you do know how to captivate and keep an audience. Hopefully we will be reintroduced to the Gunny again soon.
The men that survived the Valley had this weird way of coming back into my life at later times.
Unexpected and always faintly disturbing, although always welcome. Much better than going to a Basic
School class reunion…an experience I will forego on into the future.
Semper fi,
and thanks.
Jim
KEEP US WANTING MORE. JAMES
I shall endeavor to persevere in that regard Robert and I thank you for making that statement, which is a compliment for certain.
Semper fi,
Jim
Enjoyed the story. Happy to see you are busy with the book.
Thanks H. Kemp. You have been a trooper for a long time with me here. Much appreciate the short but meaningful comment and
compliment lightly but sincerely delivered.
Semper fi,
Jim
I enjoy your stories.
Thanks for the brief laconic compliment. Helps me and makes me smile.
Thanks for that.
Semper fi,
Jim
You are always so spot on with your sharp editing, Dan.
One thing to know “Jules” has been a nickname ‘forever’ ~~Smile
Great read. Glad your feeling better and writing again. I look forward to each chapter.
Thanks Ted, and yes, I’m feeling much better. Even better as I read some of these comments and then make
time to answer them…one and all. Thanks for the compliment and I am hard at writing Chapter VIII.
Semper fi,
Jim
Incredible look inside at the events most of us saw only from the outside..way outside š
Riveting as your telling usually is .. Thank you ..
When I laid here on that gurney in the Yokosuka Naval Hospital I prayed to God that I would not survive to lead a regular
boring life. I think He heard me and then pointed his Godly finger down and said “You Got It Little One.”
Here I am writing about what my prayer result has wrought…
Semper fi, and thanks for the compliment.
Jim
Oh boy Lt, you seem to be getting deeper and deeper into who knows what! And off to a second mission too!!! Sounds like your wife knows better what is going on than you. Never doubt the power of a women’s intuition!! Keep the chapters a coming, am on the edge of my chair. Semper Fi sir!!
My wife and I were so very young, although gaining life experience at near light speed.
Funny that when you get really older and have all that life experience it is nearly useless for other people because
it is mostly not believable. Hence, or common current condition as a nation.
Semper fi, and thanks for the great compliment.
Jim
Wow.Getting tested big time James.
I always have wondered what would have happened if I had opened the envelope. It it was empty, then what? If it was not?
But, here I am with the mystery of that event never to be revealed to me or anyone else.
Semper fi,
Jim
wow this is very thought-provoking Iāve read it once and I have two initial reactions one what is with this cloak and dagger stuff? The second is when you saw the tag commander itās funny how when we were young and just out of the Corps where rank and importance were displayed visibly when we got to the so-called civilian world those little things that determine that incredibly important level of being somebody were different yet speaking only for myself they were very important to me
you certainly hung out with some shady characters isnāt it funny though how this drive to seem important at least in our own minds was often done by the exterior demonstration of our importance in the outside world at some point in my life I realized that when I went to the grocery store or the gas station nobody asked for my title my business card how large was my office they just wanted the cash to pay for the bill this one is definitely going to take another reading and some more thoughtOnce again you have stimulated the brain cells and at our age that is no laughing matter Semper Fi my good friend
Rich, you and I both have enjoyed the upside and downside of not being famous. Famous people have no choice at being recognized, even at the grocery store. People like you and I can ‘hide’ in plain sight and that’s a gift that is not only subtle but relaxing. It does not pay the bills, however. Famous people trade in the benefit of always being able to pay the bills but doing so while being followed, photoed, harassed and asked for stuff for the entirety of their lives.
Semper fi, my unknown but beloved friend,
Jim
James,
For me, there are two elements in your writing that keep bringing me back. First, is your attention to detail wording that tells the story through pictures and images, especially in your thought process as you work through your actions.
But second, you have been thrown into some incredible unique situations that, to an outside observer, are just so damn interesting!
Years ago when I first started working through the beginning of the 1st 10 days, you got dropped into a inter-company race war while simultaneously striving to survive combat against the Vietnamese. Then you come home to heal up and get befriended by Mickey Thompson! Now your story is centered around the cloak and dagger of the Nixon escapades!
Lt, you’ve lived a very colorful life!
My life has been so uncommonly strange Bruce and I’ve rubbed shoulders with so many who’ve gone so far…some dragging me along with them.
I think I chose to have a colorful life following my survival from the Valley, but it’s not something I ever really thought about except for requesting that kind of favor from God on that gurney back in 1968.
Thanks for the great comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Well this is certainly getting more intrestinng by the the minute . You just had to run the fact through your mind that you have become involved in the dark side so to speak Sir . Cannot hardly wait for the next adventure to start ! Stay alert and revert back to ” JR ” ,you may need ” him ” again !
With the kind of PTSD I was issued, Junior remains down there and patiently waiting for life. I have spent some considerable energy and concern keeping him ‘down there’ so to speak for most of my life. Most successful at it too. There is some satisfaction in having him still around though. Macho men, and America and the world has plenty of them…have no clue, and, coupled with my rather innocent looks and personality, have no warning wither. Advantage in!
Semper fi,
Jim
Play with your mind, knowing what happened in later Nixon years, can’t wait for more info. Must have been legal as I guess you never went to prison.
Pete, as usual right on top of things when you comment. Not always accurate, but who the hell is. Six prisons.
Thanks for the compliment in your words…
Semper fi,
Jim