Gularte and I worked back and forth across our interconnected plots of sand, rolling over the state beach area without stopping, as the state guards didn’t much appreciate the beach patrol’s existence much less the mostly reserve officers that manned it.
“It’s a turf thing,” Gularte commented, after I said a few uncomplimentary words about the state guard force. “The Highway Patrol gets bored when there’s nobody on the freeway coming through town on week nights so they enter San Clemente and patrol the bars and stuff in order to have something to do and justify their existence.”
“True,” I replied, fully aware of occasionally running into the ‘Chippies,’ as all local police called CHP officers, behind their backs.
“We resent the poaching on our turf, for no good reason anyone can ever explain.”
“Anthropoid ape thing, likely,” I said, thinking seriously about the issue for the first time. “San Clemente is ours and the freeway is theirs.”
“Yeah, but we work the freeway all the time,” Gularte replied.
“And they probably don’t like that either.” I shook my head, the conversation starting to become as inane as the passing of the four hours until there was sufficient darkness to initiate the mission.
“Let’s kill some time with Shawna at the end of the pier, as there sure as hell is nothing going on out along the surf line.”
Actually, even though it would have made the four hours pass quicker to have people and work to do, or at least observe, I knew it was a benefit that the beaches were empty. The presence of the Bronco wouldn’t be as easily missed and the likelihood of getting calls of any kind would be reduced to close to zero.
Gularte eased the Bronco along in first gear low register, the vehicle moving at about three miles per hour, the unsteady nature of the pier’s all wood construction always unsettling when riding upon it in a two-ton potential coffin if the pier went down. There was a lifeguard Jeep parked at the end, near the restaurant but off to one side.
“Bob Elwell has the duty tonight,” I informed Gularte.
“Yeah, you told me that already, but who’s the other guy and how long is he staying?”
There were only two customers visible through the large ‘picture’ window as we drove up. Gularte left the Bronco idling in neutral and turned on the loudspeaker mounted on the hood so we could hear radio transmissions from inside, as the portable I wore on my chest could not be on when close to the main radio as interference would degrade any transmission. When on the mission Gularte and I would be more than the required fifty yards from that radio. We had no frequency adjustment or other portable to be able to hear anything that might come from the compound, however.
We walked through the door. Shawna came at us holding two coffee mugs, no doubt having noticed our approach and arrival.
Gularte and I sat at the bar, across the room from where Bob Elwell sat at a table.
“He’s with Steve Bro,” Shawna whispered, “and he’s on some sort of anti-police jag, or something.”
I really didn’t care much about Steve’s potential verbal delivery, but I was concerned about how long he’d hang out with Elwell. Steve was an unknown quantity. Brilliant, talented, athletic and tough but possessed of an acidic personality that took some accommodating depending upon his mood. I normally liked that fact about him. Sometimes it was like being in a sword fight with words being the weapons.
Bob waved for us to come to their table. Gularte and I both obliged. We were of different service delivery but ‘brothers in arms,’ so to speak.
“We were just talking about you guys,” Steve started right in.
Gularte and I didn’t say anything, both of us sipping our coffee and waiting for what had to be coming.
“Swimming tests,” Bro said, “you guys don’t even have to take a swimming test to be running all over the beaches. What if somebody needs to be rescued right where you are and it might be a long time before a real lifeguard can get there?”
“Your point being?” Gularte asked, his voice soft and gentle, a presentation that was supposed to make any listener feel comfortable but for another combat veteran listening it was anything but that.
“Can either of you even swim?” Bro asked.
“All my life,” I quickly replied, wanting to avoid any unpleasantness prior to accomplishing the mission. Gularte was primed and ready for action. I didn’t need that action to start with Bro in the restaurant. “Four years of high school swim team, one- and three-meter diver as well as being considered pretty good at the breast stroke.”
“Really?” Bro asked, his tone indicating that he hadn’t believed a word I said. “What was your best time in the breaststroke?”
“When I was a senior, I went to state and did the hundred in fifty-nine point seven seconds, but only placed third. It was a school record, however.”
Bro cogitated over his coffee for a few seconds, before turning to Gularte.
“What about you?” he asked.
Gularte smiled a wide toothy smile. “I am hidalgo Spanish, and therefore we have servants who do that sort of thing in the water.”
“Hidalgo?” Bro asked, a frown crossing his brow.
“’Gentleman’, in Spanish,” I answered, but then went right on in order to change the difficult direction the conversation was headed in. “You guys both going to be on duty tonight?”
“Nah,” I’ve stuck here until midnight but Bro’s going to see The Godfather with some of the other guys.”
Both guards got up to leave. I offered to get their coffee bill, knowing that there was no way Shawna would charge Gularte or I. Bob smiled and nodded before they went out the door.
“Hildago, my ass,” Bro whispered as he passed behind Gularte’s back.
Once they were gone I eased down into my chair. “Blow it off,” I said to Gularte, seeing the flat expression that had formed on his face at hearing Bro’s words.
“Mission orientation,” I said. “We let nothing stand in the way of that, not our pride, money, equipment, or other individuals. The devil’s in the details and we can’t be thinking of anything else.”
“That’s the guy who put the Claymore up, I’ll bet,” he said, ignoring me.
“Shut up and listen or this night is over,” I commanded, my voice terse and low.
“Alright,” Gularte said, his tone going submissive and controlled. “You’re the company commander Junior and I guess that’s for a damned good reason.”
“The Marauder,” I said, going right into the details of the mission I’d mentioned, but feeling a little strange because Gularte’s anger toward Bro was the same as I had toward the insulting conduct Little Mardian had committed, yet I was willing to do nothing to correct Bro’ss conduct.
“We drive up, get it, and then bring it back to the headquarters building,” Gularte said, back in the game we were playing that wasn’t a game at all.
Without further conversation I decided to get the car right then. I needed Gularte’s full attention as well as his combat senses to help guide and protect what we were doing.
The car was there when we got to the department lot and there seemed nobody around, except for Sergeant Chastney, who shouldn’t have been there at all since he’d be the watch commander for the midnight to eight shift.
“You two planning on spending the night at the racetrack with that thing,” he said, surprising me, as I’d not seen him standing by the nearby bushes at the back door of the facility.
“Just some servicing for Lieutenant Gates,” I replied, getting into the driver’s seat and turning over the ignition key.
The Marauder burst into its low growling start, and then idled roughly. Chastney walked around the car, as Gularte entered through the passenger door.
“I know it was you,” Chastney said, leaning down before I could fully close the door.
I smelled his cigarette breath and caught his tone of dislike toward me. The man was a good watch commander and a cop in general, but he was a lot like Gates when it came to having a somewhat broken personality, not to mention his odd dislike of my very existence.
“Me?” I asked, in actual surprise.
“The Porsche thing,” Chastney said, I know it was you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about sergeant,” I said, closing my door and putting the Marauder in drive. Chastney stepped back, tossing his cigarette back toward the bushes he’d been standing behind.
“What the hell was that?” Gularte asked when the I pulled the Marauder across the parking lot so he could drive it back. “How can he know about something that hasn’t happened yet?”
“It’s the wheel, the damned wheel in his office,” I said, pulling up next to the Bronco. “The damned coincidence I’d never considered until this moment.”
“What wheel?” Gularte asked, but then quickly followed, “that wheel, the one with the ashtray. That was you?”
“I’m not admitting anything,” I said.
“Oh, we’re going on a mission that could involve violence, felonies and potential death and you’re not trusting me about the Porsche wheel thing?”
“Okay,” I gave in. Gularte had an excellent point. “It was me, and my training officer. Chastney doesn’t like him either.”
“How could I have not known?” Gularte asked, shaking his head. “It had to be you. Nobody else but you would do something that bizarre.”
Gularte got out and I drove to the headquarters building. The Marauder had clickers for the gates, so I didn’t have to wait for the slow-moving monster tire Bronco to lurch across to join me. Bob was waiting at the headquarters like he knew we were coming. The giant garage door on the left, where he’d been working on the surfboard earlier opened. The bay was empty. I pulled the big Mercury inside and the door closed.
“Thanks, Bob,” I said to Bob, as I walked toward the small door cut into the face of the big door.
“Sorry about Bro, his mom is having some medical issues.”
“It’s okay,” Gularte has ‘hidalgo’ skin as thick as a lizard’s,” I lied.
“We’ll see you in an hour, or so.”
I went through the door and climbed into the Bronco with Gularte.
“Let’s head out to Trestles and stay out of sight and trouble for the next hour and then we come back and cross the line of departure.”
“The line of departure,” Gularte breathed out as we drove away. “Where do officers come up with great lines like that?”
“West Point,” I replied, reflexively.
“You went to West Point?” Gularte asked, in awe.
“Of course not,” I replied. “I had no pedigree. My dad was enlisted Coast Guard, only recently making it to a warrant officer post. The Point and Naval Academy are like Harvard and Princeton, only places where the royalty of America can enter and thrive.”
After a pause, Gularte went on, “you regret that you didn’t or couldn’t go?” he asked, starting to exasperate me.
“I sent seven body bags of Pointers up out of the A Shau,” I replied, tired of the subject and wanting to get into the mission.
“You sorry about that?” Gularte said, seemingly unable to stop himself.
“I liked them all,” I replied. “I liked them all, but they were tadpoles who never had the time to grow into frogs.”
Gularte went silent. I knew he didn’t understand. Life experience trumps education each and every time, but it’s only education in the American culture that sometimes allows one to get to the position to acquire life experience. Combat is, however, an exception. It allows the acquisition of death experience not life.
We finally made it to Trestles, the evening coming on, and where there was no activity whatever because of the approaching darkness. Surfing was not a sport to be conducted in darkness and the wind-blown sand wasn’t pleasant enough for picnic goers or a private place for love interests to be continued or concluded. The sharp rays of a polished gold sunset sparkled across the blowing whiteness of the small caps atop the incoming waves. I breathed deeply, preparing for the mission, as if my life was once again on the line, but without the deep inner feeling of terror wrapped around my very core. I stared out across the endless scene of breaking waves and upset waters. I wasn’t living in paradise, but I was very close to living in that kind of environment. I knew it was important that I realized that.
When I’d been in high school in Hawaii, about to come back to the mainland for college, I’d seen my Diamond Head mountain-top experience and view of Waikiki as anything but gazing across the fields, sands, city and sea of paradise. I’d been wrong then and I wasn’t about to repeat the error of such thinking I’d made back then. San Clemente was a gift to me of recovery, conversion and integration back into a society that had become as different to me as that of some anthropologic throwaway tribe in deepest Africa or South America. America was like a ‘cargo cult’ society, but it was unaware of that, and it was, by no means, my mission to have the society understand that.
Gularte and I sat for nearly an hour, almost all of it in silence, as both of us shared the time but not the daytime nightmares of our pasts. We both somehow knew that the public had no clue and we ourselves needed no clues to discuss what had happened.
Twenty minutes before the ‘kickoff hour’ set for sundown, took place, Gularte and I were back, waiting outside the third door at the lifeguard headquarters. The door rose and we drove inside, there being sufficient space to put the Bronco without it touching either of the big machines towering over it.
The Marauder awaited outside, with Bob Elwell operating the controls, and despite having raised the door and then lowering it, nowhere to be seen or heard.
Gularte and I got into the Marauder and went out through the protective railroad gates. The evening was fast coming upon us, and I knew almost full dark would visit as we arrived at the target area in Dana Point Harbor.
The Porsche was there, parked near the top of the boat entry and exit ramp, its front facing down that ramp. The detachable roof was detached, which gave me a feeling of great relief. I had only considered the fact that Little Mardian might have put the roof on in order to leave the car overnight. Breaking into a locked and probably well-sealed German car hadn’t been something I’d been prepared for or might have done. The concrete was serrated with long horizontal furrows in order to give trailering vehicles more traction on the wet parts during launch or retrieval. The very calm water in the harbor ebbed and flowed only marginally along the lower edge of the ramp. The sports car was safe from the water because the ramp was a full six or seven times the car’s length down to it. San Clemente and Dana Point high tides usually were never above five feet (except for very occasional King tides that could run up to seven feet). The tide tables were carefully checked by the guards and beach patrol before going on shifts.
I eased the Marauder into a part of the construction site where the ramp extended down, turning the lights out as I went. There was barely enough light to see anything by, however, so I kept the vehicle down to about five miles per hour. I was reluctant to return the Marauder to Gates with any damage to it whatsoever.
I’d kept the portable radio, clipped to my upper left shoulder, in case Bobby Scruggs gave us a call while we weren’t anywhere near our area of operations. Once away from the Bronco, I turned it on. In fact, although as peace officers of the state of California, we had police powers anywhere in the state, it was uncommon for officers to work out of their specific areas of operation. Going to court, if a suspect fought a charge, was a bit difficult if that court wasn’t part of local area normality. The courts didn’t like it and neither did any police chief I’d ever heard discussing the subject.
There’d been no call from Bobby Scruggs, however, or I’d have heard it and invented some excuse as to why we weren’t where we were supposed to be.
The call had come from Bob Elwell. He’d traveled all the way up to the station headquarters to make the call, and the import of it was potentially very damaging. Bobby knew nothing, and that was obvious. What had happened hadn’t happened over the radio. According to Bob Elwell, two men showed up in an unmarked Lincoln, parked it up on the civilian lot, and then approached the headquarters as if they were civilians. The ‘civilians,’ however, had been wearing dark glasses at night, and expensive rain coats, although there was no rain. They’d indicated that the beach patrol vehicle had remained stationary at the lifeguard headquarters building for too long a period of time, whatever that time period was, which was not apparently discussed with Bob.
I listened to Bob on the radio, trying to tell me about the situation but trying to do so without admitting anything. He’d told the two men that the ‘low oil’ light had come on in the Bronco and that Gularte and I had used a personal vehicle to get to Scalzo’s 24 Hour Auto Parts place in Dana Point to buy some oil so we could continue our patrol. Scalzo’s place existed, but there was no oil light on the dash of the Bronco to indicate that the engine might be running low.
I looked at Gularte.
“They have a bug attached somewhere on the Bronco,” he said, matter-of-factly, and with no emotional reaction in his tone. “Why they have a bug and why our being stationary in the lifeguard headquarters might initiate a response, any response, is more than surprising.”
I knew, even before Elwell stopped talking, that Gularte and I had a major problem on our hands. Not one that was immediately critical but would become very critical over time. The compound had planted a bug in the Bronco. There simply was no other way that the compound personnel could have known that the Bronco had sat unmoving for quite a period of time at the lifeguard headquarters building. They not only knew how long the Bronco had been still but also knew where it was in that still position. The problem wasn’t something that couldn’t be overcome with excuses, as Bob had helped to provide.
The real problem was time stamping. At some point, when the incident of Little Mardian’s missing Porsche turned up, the timing of Gularte and my being ‘lost in time’ would likely be noticed and not overlooked. Would Mardian senior see that report, if there was a report? Would he be able to put together the disappearance of the Porsche with our being missing for a period of time from the Bronco? There was little question that Little Mardian had no care or feeling toward his father, but his father obviously didn’t feel that way or the Wind and Sea restaurant wouldn’t be coming into reality, and I wouldn’t have been sent out to fix the mess the kid had gotten himself into with Butch.
Wearing the black tactical gear that we’d switched into at the lifeguard headquarters building, Gularte and I prepared ourselves. We clipped our polished brass police badges to our chest just in case we ran into any kind of security or enforcement.
The Porsche was exactly as we’d seen it before. I walked to the passenger door, pulled the Doors tape from inside my tactical shirt and leaned inside. There was a tape in the machine already. I ejected it and shoved the Doors tape into the slot.
“How can we play it without the key?” Gularte asked.
“We’re not here to play it, and besides, someone might hear, and then what?” I looked around as I said the words, but the place was nearly dark and fully silent, except for the lapping of the harbor water against the angled ramp.
“I don’t get the point then,” Gularte whispered.
“You’re not supposed to,” I replied. “The emergency brake is on your side,” I went on, moving the shift lever to make sure the transmission wasn’t in gear.
The gear was centered, and I could tell it wasn’t engaged to one of the gears. “Release the brake and step back.”
Gularte leaned into his side of the vehicle, and I heard a clicking sound before the Porsche started moving. Gularte pulled his torso out of the car and stepped back. Silently and with no fanfare at all the Porsche eased down the ramp, it’s nose dipping into the water not stopping the vehicle’s progress whatever. Smoothly and silently the car continued down the slope until it was fully underwater.
“God, just like that, it’s gone, never to be seen again,” Gularte said, his tone one of amazement.
It was almost as if the heavy little sports car, weighted down by its ‘anchoring’ engine in its rear end had been made for just such a trip to the harbor bottom.
“We’re out of here,” I said, as there was nothing else to be seen where we were and any more time on site would just increase the probability that we’d be seen or identified in some way or other.
We both walked back to the Marauder and climbed in. I drove the Mercury as silently as it would go, easing over the potholes caused by heavy work vehicles crossing back and forth over the thin gravel surface.
Once clear of the construction I headed toward Pacific Coast Highway. The Marauder was capable of well over a hundred miles per hour, but I kept it at just above the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit so as to attract no neighboring police interest, although the car itself demanded such attention if it was seen, even sitting still, in the daylight.
“That seemed too easy,” Gularte said, taking off his trademark black leather gloves, “and you didn’t wear any gloves yourself.”
“Like there will be prints taken from the Porsche when it’s finally pulled from the bottom?” I asked, not expecting or receiving an answer.
Fingerprints were a whole lot more delicate than most people thought and I was certain none would survive much time in the ocean water. I’d only touched the eight track cassettes and the eject button on the machine.
Bob was waiting at the headquarters building when we got there. Gularte and I both changed into our normal beach patrol uniforms, replacing our badges and then put the tactical stuff in the back seat of the Bronco.
When we were outside standing next to both the Bronco and the Marauder Bob asked his only question. He’d made no comment since our return.
“What am I supposed to tell anybody if asked?”
“We parked the Bronco, went for the oil, came back and went back on patrol,” I answered.
“Got it,” Bob replied.
I drove the Marauder back up to the headquarters building while Gularte followed in the Bronco. In only minutes, and no more than half an hour since plunging Little Mardian’s Porsche to the bottom, we were back on patrol crossing the sand toward “T” Street.
“What might happen and how did you do that in such a cool way,” Gularte asked, “as my heart’s still beating like a drum?”
“I don’t expect there’ll be anything coming out of the Western White House,” I replied, “like they could care what we were doing, and I don’t expect Mardian is much filled in about anything locally or that doesn’t pertain to his own area of chores and ‘adjustments,’ as Cobb would say.”
“Why the tape?” Gularte asked, after a few minutes of silence had gone by.
“The tape’s a test,” I whispered, after a sigh, not wanting to tell Gularte that part but he’d risked for me and I owed him.
“Test for Little Mardian?” he asked.
“No, for Butch,” I said.
We made it to the state beach before stopping at the sound of the compound Motorola being keyed.
“See the man at ten hundred hours tomorrow. Charlie Oscar Sierra.”
“Ten Four,” Gularte said, being first to grab the handset from the dash.
“What’s the ‘Charlie’ thing?”
“Chief of Staff,” I answered, butterflies beginning to form in my stomach.
“I’ll be taking that call, not you. You’ll be going after finding the bug they put somewhere in or on this vehicle.”
We drove on, me again acting like I was unaffected, but that was far from the truth. No delayed formal visit request from Haldeman was anything to take lightly. I was in trouble, although I thought it simply could not be for what we’d done less than an hour before.
Enjoyed this chapter very much, thanks!
You are most welcome William and thanks for saying so on this public site!
Semper fi,
Jim
Great story telling Sir!
Now you have assumed the role of necromancer in controling the collection of malevolent spirits swirling about you. The COS, Mardian, Dept Supervisors, the magnificent 7, the claymore, the 3 lost marines…
An impressive array of forces all demanding something different and you holding onto finding yourself in this confluence of purpose. It is truly hard to find yourself when you have to be something different to everyone else in your world, you become a constellation of compartments. To only open the box when you need it.
I find myself checking my email everyday for the next chapter! What extradordinary experiences and truly gifted writing, keep em coming!
Wow! such a terrific comment in every way. A great pleasure to read and the compliment as well.
Thanks so much for putting your opinion up on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
So many forks in the trail with lots of interesting souls traversing them ,really makes my 70 year old mind work to keep it all sorted out and in order. I have neve read anything this interesting chapter after chapter! What a life you lived then Jim.
thank you from the depths my friend. I pout both your and James Johnston’s comments up on my Facebook pages. Who gets compliments as an author like that these days? Hell, any days?
Much appreciate the impetus you give me to continue on into this night. Writing away….
Semper fi,
Jim
Yup, that picture in my mind of the Porshe sitting three fathoms deep in the basin was correct. Still haven’t figured out the expected results or potential repercussions. You do have some great friends there. To have trust in someone to do those things with you is very much like the trust you have to have in those around you in combat. Someone to cover your six. You are on a roll, Lt. Looking forward to the next installment.
Thanks, Rick! Much appreciate your expectancy of this coming chapter, which is seventy-five percent complete as I write on into this night.
With a smile on my face, I might add. You and the ‘crew’ out here sure as hell keep me going….
Semper fi,
JIm
JIM THIS IS AN EXCITING CHAPTER! Can’t wait till the next one.
Thanks Jim, really appreciate the ‘atta boy’ and the get up and go that compliments like your own infuse me with!
Semper fi,
Jim
James,
What a brilliant chapter. Your writing tells an exceptional story, but if one looks closely, you leave little Hansel and Gretel tidbits. It is like an onion, you can remove the thin brown skin, and eat the onion; but if you peel back more layers you get the sweetest part,
You are allegedly an anthropologist versed in the mores and rituals of Indigenous peoples. So “cargo cult “becomes the start of the trail.
A cargo cult is a term used to describe a phenomenon observed in certain societies, particularly in the South Pacific region, where people develop rituals, beliefs, and practices centered around the expectation of receiving material wealth or “cargo” from more technologically advanced societies or supernatural forces.
The term “cargo cult” originated during and after World War II when Indigenous populations in the South Pacific witnessed the arrival of Western military forces with advanced technology, goods, and supplies. When these forces departed after the war, some Indigenous groups, not fully understanding the source of the material wealth, began to engage in rituals and activities aimed at attracting similar cargo from the skies or from supernatural beings.
Cargo cults often involve the construction of symbolic runways, airplanes, control towers, and other structures mimicking Western technology, as well as rituals and dances meant to summon the arrival of cargo. These beliefs and practices are rooted in a desire for economic prosperity and improvement in living conditions.
It is important to note that cargo cults are typically seen as a form of cultural misunderstanding and adaptation in response to rapid social and technological changes. They reflect the desire for a better quality of life but are based on a misunderstanding of the causal relationships involved. Over time, many cargo cults have either evolved, adapted, or faded away as societies have continued to interact with the modern world.
The message is hiding the Bronco, using the Marauder to reach the “cargo,” i.e., Porsche is telling. However, no one was surprised as it slipped into the depths.
Next comes Catholic guilt. You know you done wrong, but it was right.
Anticipating a reprimand for a transgression that a person had no way of knowing about can create anxiety and stress.
I have an example from my own experiences. When I was in college, we lived in jock dorm, and a group of my roommates were suspected of academic credibility issues, namely, cheating.Suspicion bounded all over the house of fifty and everyone wondering who had leaked to the dean of students.
I knew of what they were doing, but it was a topic it was unconcerned to me, because I was in a beautiful place with the course and did not need to cheat to achieve a superior grade. No one wants to be thought of being a snitch or accused by his peers so I went to see my academic advisor a professor in the Phys ed department. I laid everything out for him in complete confidence and I trusted him 110%. He gave me advice on how to manage my meeting with the dean because we were all going to see him.
Number one he said listen as you receive information about the transgression, you will be able to see what they are talking about. Then he reminded me to seek clarification if make sure I understood any questions completely, and stay calm easier said than done, and I knew that there was no way they suspected me of being part of the cheating ring, but sometimes being a rat is worse than the actual crime amid social pressure.
So, I attended the meeting and he started by asking me if I knew anything about cheating going on in physiology class. I said I have heard rumors, but that was the extent of my knowledge then he said to me Well we know you are not one of them because you have shown nothing but phenomenal work in this class and keep it up. Do you have any idea who the culprits might be?
I said to Dino’s friend, even if I knew it would be unethical for me to say anything, because I have no proof nor knowledge that anything is going on and there is nothing worse in this world than being falsely accused.
he told me you are a man of honor and integrity, and you are a wonderful example of student athletes at this university I said, thank you, and got the hell out of there.
A short postscript they never accused, nor caught the cheaters, but they began to assign seats in the lecture hall for people to take the exams.
We are not there in the story but I am sure you oversaw it well.
Didn’t you? I mean you are still alive.
Dear Rich, I am not alleged in anthropology. I hold a Ph.D in ethnology, which used to be called cultural anthropology until they changed it. I studied cargo caults, however, all the way back to the erly sixties when I was under graduating in sociology and anthropology. Your understanding of later cultural theory about the phenomenon and then the transfer of that theory over to explain some forms of social behavior is flawed, as are some of those theoretical pursuits. The cargo cults were simple manifestations of the old hoard phrase “if the technology is advanced enough then those viewing it will come to see it as magic.’ Airplanes were magic to those people fortunate enough to have a loaded cargo plane land or crash among them under such near genetically uneducated tribal situations. We could go on, I presume, since apparently you do have some alleged anthropology credentials of our own. Thanks for the great essay on your experience with that cheating scandal situation. As Snowdon, Ellsberg and Manning proved, being a ‘snitch’ even when the results are beneficial to the entire world around you can be harshly punished by that same benefiting collection of societies. Sounds like you guided yourself well on through that one.
Thanks for the compliment of your extensive writing of interest and applicability on this site.
Ssemper fi, my friend,
Jim
Well, that chapter was too short.
That song got a second mission. One lesson from back in the Valley was to not return over previously covered ground. Maybe this doesn’t end like the return to the top of the cliff, but repercussions could be around the corner. Your tactics are becoming more refined, though.
Next to Mary, Gularte is your closest confidante. Overlooking him in the trust conversation might mean that your level of trust extends to a point in your subconscious that is truly safe.
(Im) patiently waiting….
Todd F
Thanks for your patience, Todd, and your ability to deftly and elegantly describe some of what has to be going on behind the scenes as things continue to develop.
And the compliments, of course.
Semper fi,
Jim
Again I drop everything to read the next chapter. Left with another cliff hanger. Keep them coming
Thanks Phil, some of the stuff that was going on was pretty damned funny, although very edgy at the time.
I had not truly inculcated just how punishing the U.S. society could be to outliers who might have no real
understanding that they could, doing such things as I did, be putting their whole life on the line for
things that were relatively meaningless. Thanks for the dropping everyone. Made my day…
Semper fi,
Jim
LT the chapter was as good of an attention grabber as all the rest! I check my email daily looking for the next chapter!!@
Sgt Johnny Applewhite USMC 81-89
Johnny Appleseed, or rather Applewhite (which you’ve never heard the juxtaposition before) please stand by for the next installment, as life was throwing changeups at me nearly every day back in those days. Thanks for being on here with the rest of us, by the way.
Semper fi,
Jim
U Boat Porsche submarine! I’m still laughing
I like that ‘U-Boat’ analogy and smile right along with you…now.
Thanks for the compliment inherent in your single sentence.
Semper fi,
Jim
I find it very interesting that you are working very hard to assimilate back into a “World” environment that as critically intensive & different from normal as the Ahsau experience….7 West Pointers; Watergate & California Western Whitehouse! Honored to be listening! The Bug in the Bronco is just as pertinent now! Can’t imagine this laundry will stay in the defilade! Always have you back Brother….
Thank you my great friend. For over there and over here. The truth will out and its been a long time in the coming.
Semper fi,
My friend,
Jim
Sometimes your own fellow citizens are far worse enemies than those you are facing on a battlefield .
Thanks Chuck, for a deep comment. That short bit of writing could be one whole nights discussion.
What do you mean by the word worse? Your point is that it can sometimes be as dangerous back here in
the supposed civilized home ground as it can be down in the A Shau. I can’t disagree with that one,
particularly for combat vets coming home and thinking there are no dangers back home because they did
not have enough life experience to know about them before they went to war.
Semper fi,
Jim
Oh you have really stirred up a hornets nest haven’t you!! And you appear as cool as a cucumber. Awesome read Lt can’t wait for your meeting with Charlie Oscar Sierra!!
I waited to appear before Charlie Oscar with a bit more trepidation at the time, Bob! Thanks for being so physically and mentally invested in the series.
I could only hope that the ‘rest of the story’ would not be ignored because 30 Days was such a shocking piece of literature.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, The Porsche sleeps with the fishes as expected. You still have to wax and polish the Marauder for Gates.
Interesting that Gularte thinks Steve Bro might have placed the Claymore.
If so, that’s sorta good news. Steve wouldn’t have access to a live munition nor any sane reason to blow you guys away.
The line about tadpoles growing into frogs and the following paragraph contain great wisdom.
Some minor editing suggestions follow:
poaching on our turf,” for no good reason
Quote mark after “turf” unnecessary
poaching on our turf, for no good reason
nothing going on out on along the surf line
Two “on” Drop second
nothing going on out along the surf line
we could hear radio transmission from inside
Maybe “transmissions”
we could hear radio transmissions from inside
“Gentleman,” in Spanish,” I answered
Think we need ‘Gentleman’ in single quotes
All within the quoted sentence
“’Gentleman,’ in Spanish,” I answered
Gularte said, hist tone going submissive and controlled
“his” rather than “hist”
Gularte said, his tone going submissive and controlled
Gularte’s anger toward Bro was the same as I had toward the insulting conduct Little Mardian had committed, yet I was willing to do nothing to correct his conduct.
/ “his conduct” What I get is – you are paying back Little Mardian for his conduct but are not supporting Gularte in paying back Bro for his conduct. My guess is “his” refers to Steve Bro. Maybe make that specific./
Gularte’s anger toward Bro was the same as I had toward the insulting conduct Little Mardian had committed, yet I was willing to do nothing to correct Bro’s conduct.
The Marauder burst into it’s low growling start
“its” instead of “it’s” no apostrophe
The Marauder burst into its low growling start
Gularte asked when the Marauder pulled across the parking lot so he could drive it back.
/ Context seems that Gularte drove the Bronco back, while you stayed in the Marauder./ Maybe reword.
Gularte asked when I pulled the Marauder across the parking lot so he could drive the Bronco back.
Bob was waiting at the headquarters like he knew were coming
Add “we” before “were”
Bob was waiting at the headquarters like he knew we were coming
“Sorry about Bro,” his mom is having some medical issues.”
Drop quote mark after “Bro”
“Sorry about Bro, his mom is having some medical issues.”
Gularte has ‘hidalgo’ skin as thick as a lizards
Add apostrophe to “lizards”
Gularte has ‘hidalgo’ skin as thick as a lizard’s
Dana Point high tides usually never an above five feet
Maybe add “were” before “never”
Drop “an”
Dana Point high tides usually were never above five feet
ramp extended down from turning the lights out as I went
Drop “from” add comma in its place
ramp extended down, turning the lights out as I went
I was wont to return the Marauder to Gates with any damage
“wont” doesn’t seem to fit.
Maybe “loath” or “reluctant”
I was loath to return the Marauder to Gates with any damage
OR
I was reluctant to return the Marauder to Gates with any damage
while we weren’t anywhere near to our area of operations
“to” seems extra
while we weren’t anywhere near our area of operations
two men showed up on an unmarked Lincoln
“in” instead of “on”
two men showed up in an unmarked Lincoln
more than surprising.
Close quotes
more than surprising.”
pulled the Door’s tape from inside my tactical shirt
Don’t think we need apostrophe in “Door’s”
pulled the Doors tape from inside my tactical shirt
Gularte leaned into this side of the vehicle
Maybe “his” rather than “this”
Gularte leaned into his side of the vehicle
and you didn’t wear nay gloves yourself
“any” instead of “nay”
and you didn’t wear any gloves yourself
Porsche when its finally pulled
Add apostrophe “it’s” It is
Porsche when it’s finally pulled
then putting the tactical stuff in the back seat
“put” instead of “putting”
then put the tactical stuff in the back seat
my heart’s still beating like a drum?
Close quotes
my heart’s still beating like a drum?”
Blessings & Be Well
Great work and great conclusions and suppositions my friend. The chapters click off now, gathering heat and steam as they go.
Thanks for all you do to make all of this possible.
Your friend,
and Semper fi,
Jim
James/LT/Sir,
You of all people should know that well-laid plans still have uncontrollable outside factors that can be a monkey wrench that can derail them.
Hope you have not gotten your keester in a grinder with this caper.
You sure give the impression in what you wrote in this chapter that you think you have pulled it off without any monkey wrenches being in play that will make this turn out badly for you. Hope you are right. You DO have a lot to lose. A lot of risky shenanigans here for questionable benefit? Guess you did not see it that way and felt your mission had a necessary purpose.
Thanks for getting another good chapter served up to your readership.
Time to mull this chapter over while I stay tuned until your next installment of enlightenment.
The Walter Duke! The mission did have a necessary purpose, or rather, several, as yet unrevealed. Things made senes back then but only as time went by.
It was almost impossible to see things as they truly were as all I would get was pieces of mosaic art work, and not be able to stand back and see
the entire work, until time had gone by. Thanks for the usual perception and support.
Your friend,
Semper fi,
Jim
WOW, what a chapter. The next chapters are going to be even better. Can’t wait. As I said before somebody close to you are not who they pretend to be. But who is the big question.
Thanks JT, for your expectation of even better, and, of course, more.
Lots of questions still unanswered but we are proceeding at flank speed.
Semper fi,
Jim
Gularte eased the Bronco along in first gear low register (range?)
“……set for sundown, took place, Gularte and I ware (were) back, waiting”
….little question that Little Marxian had no care or feeling (awkward) toward his father
leather gloves, “and you didn’t wear nay (any) gloves yourself.”
Thanks Sam, for the help here and making a comment on the site…
Semper fi,
Jim
Nice mission, neatly done. I miss the “Thirty Days” mission names.
I had some catch up reading to do, where does the time go?
Take care and keep cranking them out sir.
Tim
The mission names had real meaning and there are some still here in the series, but you will have
to pay attention very keenly…oh, and thank you most sincerely….
Semper fi,
Jim
Fantastic twist and turn chapter James. A real head scratcher
.
Thank you so much, Charles. Always good to read what you write on here. My great friend up there
in Green Bay, where I never seem to get!
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, this episode reminds me of midnight shopping and the five finger discount of the old days. It seems that getting caught doesn’t really phase you!
Thanks Leo, for that thinking on your part and my laughing to go with it.
Much appreciate this comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
hist* tone going submissive (*his)
headquarters like he knew (*we) were coming. The giant garage door on the left, where he’d been
Gularte and I ware* (*were) back, waiting outside the third door at the lifeguard headquarters
Ok then, one high $ Porsche in for a saltwater bath with a tape that may or may not become a focal point in the not too distant future !!
Oh boy the game is now truly afoot Lt. 🙂
Keep ’em coming James !!
Thanks, SgtBob, as usual. And for the help too. Your compliment is well taken and enjoyed, as well.
I am keeping them coming and the next chapter is almost ready to go and it’s only Saturday night.
Semper fi,
Jim