The three of us sat on the bench, our backs to Cobb’s smaller, but expensive yacht, and facing Richard’s larger and much more expensive yacht. It was readily apparent that the two boats were so closely slipped near one another out of deliberation rather than ignorance or the luck of the draw. Both smoked while, except for a very few exceptions when down in the Valley with the Gunny, I did not. The smoke wafted over me, as the usual northeastern breeze roiled gently around us. Nobody said anything for several uncomfortable moments. The question asked of me moments before resounded through my mind, bouncing from place to place but finding no purchase anywhere.
Tom Thorkelson had driven into me the sales technique of using silence as a power tool. The first person to speak in almost any sales situation, following either introductions or a presentation, was usually the one who would give in or surrender and buy the product being sold. Waiting for the silence to end had to be made, or allowed to be made, more difficult for the other person than the presenter, although such silences are always hard for both parties. This technique, I discovered as I dealt with all manner of other ‘sales’ situations, was extremely effective in all of them. Chuck Bartok was also a master of Tom’s application of the Xerox sales process. Except he’d added the Marine Corps variant to the technique, which I found brilliant and also most useful.
“If you can’t baffle them with your bullshit,” he’d instructed, “then you’ve got to dazzle them with your footwork.”
I waited, thinking about Tom’s and Chuck’s teachings as both Cobb and Richard were both sitting, not giving anything away but obviously waiting me out. They likely believed that I knew something they needed to know. I didn’t need anything from them except the envelope of hundreds, and that was already securely folded up inside my pocket. I also knew I was an amateur playing with professionals, and brilliant experienced professionals at that. I wanted to say something, but there was no way I was going to.
So, I waited, inhaling the smoke from Cobb’s cigarette smoke, enjoying the aroma, as I did when taking in the smoke from my wife’s Newport Menthols. I watched the bobbing boats in their slips nearby, the seagulls ever present, pecking around and looking for scraps, but never coming closer than twenty to thirty feet of us.
“I was able to gain the benefit of a rumor back at the compound,” Cobb said, tossing her still lit cigarette into the harbor water behind her.
“Yes?” I replied, but not going on.
“I heard that the missing Mardian Porsche needs to be found and you are assigned to find it.”
I remained silent, flabbergasted by her sources and their willingness to tell her stuff that was spoken of, not at the compound per se but just outside the president’s personal residence at poolside. I wasn’t going to confirm any information that had been retrieved in such a way so I stayed quiet, continuing to stare over toward Richard’s boat, which bobbed slowly up and down and a bit back and forth, as if it was struggling against its restraints.
“Have you thought it through?” she asked, finally turning her head to look at me.
I met her gaze and read what I could of her expression but all I could catch was sincerity. I knew I was way out of her league in whatever game was being played, but I still felt her raw curiosity and a small bit of concern, maybe about me and my place in everything.
“What?” I replied, not knowing of anything to think through.
The Porsche was at the bottom of the harbor, but nobody except Gularte and I knew that. The police and everyone else, including both Mardians, seemed convinced the car was stolen. Little Mardian was probably happy the car was gone since he was moving way up to a Ferrari.
“Why would he want the car at all?” Cobb asked.
“What do you mean, of course he’d want to know,” I replied, surprised.
“Why?” she shot right back. “Such a car would mean nothing to him, his son or anybody else running in that league.”
I nearly bit my tongue in stopping myself from responding. Instead, I tried to think. What could explain the course of her conversation with me. She wasn’t given to small talk and she’d stepped out to reveal that the conversations held at the residence poolside were obviously listened to or recorded. Why would she bother? No matter where my mind took me I could find nothing.
Cobb must have read my mind, or maybe my open expression of puzzlement.
“This whole line of thought, this mind experiment, if you will, can end right here if you answer one question for me,” she said, taking out another cigarette and slowly lighting it.
I waited again, as Cobb was becoming the only person I was dealing with who asked questions without using a question mark or verbal expressiveness to make it seem like the statements were questions.
She smoked her cigarette once again, Richard beside us, sitting still and straight, like a cigar store Indian. I thought about the Porsche, and the strange direction in pursuing the car’s loss which was almost like a fixation. Even Bob Mardian had only been vaguely passing in discussing the situation, almost offhandedly putting the recovery of the vehicle in my hands. All of a sudden something occurred to me.
“What was in the Porsche?” I whispered, my voice almost inaudible, my very low tone one of wonder.
“That question,” Cobb replied, “did you search the vehicle before whatever you did to it was completed?”
I reviewed the mission in my mind, remembering every detail. Neither Gularte nor I had entered the vehicle for search purposes. I’d leaned in to replace the eight-track tape on the passenger side and Gularte had leaned in to pull the handle releasing the hand brake
“Did you open the Frunk?” Cobb asked, before I could answer her first question.
“What’s a frunk?” I asked back.
“You’re not exactly a Porsche expert or enthusiast I would guess,” Cobb said, laughing between puffs. “A Frunk is what a trunk is called on a 911 because its located in the front of the car, not the back.”
“No,” I said, fully understanding that my reply was a likely needless confirmation of what the woman already knew.
“So, what are you going to do?” Cobb asked.
She went no further about what might possibly be in the Porsche trunk that was attracting so much of her, and evidently, Bob Mardian’s interest. There was no talk of Little Mardian being interested in anything except his new Ferrari, so he probably had nothing to do with whatever had to be inside the Porsche.
I had to get to Gularte. We were due on beach patrol, and I needed to talk to him badly about everything. I was also afraid to engage Cobb further. The woman was extremely well informed and very uncomfortably penetrating in her pursuit of whatever it was she was after. I was becoming afraid that she was after me, a woman who had something to do with the assassination of a president of the United States.
I stood up. “I’ve got to go on patrol but tomorrow we can meet again and I might have more for you,” I said, hoping the woman would be satisfied.
“Richard and I will stand by,” she said, a great, almost evil smile, playing across her lips, “won’t we Richard?”
Richard nodded, not looking at me. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said, and then looked up at me with the wide-eyed penetrating look of a caged tiger I’d seen at some zoo from many years before.
I walked to my Volks, my mind racing, regretting the Porsche incident and wondering just how I was going to extricate myself from the mess I was in. The one time pad encryption books and instructions also bothered me. I felt a tinge of fear, adding to what the meeting with Cobb had generated. Why, in God’s name, would someone as powerful as Mardian want to be able to communicate in total secrecy?
“Something I don’t want to know,” I said to myself, as I headed home to change and then get to the station.
Mary wasn’t home and so, of course, neither was Julie. Even Bozo had deserted the place in their absence. My wife had laid out my uniform, as usual, everything perfect. The woman was amazing. I felt regret for adding more stuff to both of our lives that I just couldn’t tell her about.
I drove to the department parking lot where Gularte sat waiting in the Bronco. I was late but I knew he’d say nothing about it. His service as a Marine NCO must have been exemplary, I surmised, as he always seemed to take care of his commanding officer.
I filled Gularte in on what had transpired with Cobb.
“How can she know we took the Porsche?” Gularte asked, pounding the steering wheel. “Why does she think we know where it is?” he went on, “and what the hell could be in the trunk, or frunk, or whatever?”
“A frunk we didn’t even think to search,” I replied, adding that mistake to all the others I’d committed on the mission.
Gularte pulled the Bronco to a stop at Trestles beach. I gazed out to sea, a sea that was still seeing the effects of an earlier storm. The sun shone brightly, Gularte wearing aviator sunglasses as usual, on cloudy days, in the rain and always when the sun was bright overhead or being born or dying on the distant horizon. The Bronco was facing the water, but well back from the reach of the advancing walls of whitewater that descended and played out from the large surf beating down on the sandy bottom not far offshore. Unlike my childhood in Hawaii, there were no reefs off the shores of San Clemente, or any of the Southern California beaches. Further out, well beyond the break, long kelp strands, thicker than ship hawsers, rose up to form ‘beds’ of plant life about as challenging as any reef system, but those never appeared further in toward the sandy shore.
“Why do you wear those things all the time,” I asked Gularte, anxiety and bit of fear making me feel irritable.
There was nothing going on to displace my thoughts about Cobb’s strange need for information. The only activity anywhere up and down the beach was on the Camp Pendleton part of the beach stretching south for twenty-some-odd miles until encountering the growing town of Oceanside.
Gularte looked himself up and down, before turning his face toward me.
“What things?” he asked, in a tone that I knew was innocent. He didn’t know what I was talking about, or he was so good at acting that he was making me feel that way.
“The glasses,” I replied, shaking my head and looking toward the Marine Corps beach. A complete Marine unit was down on the sand, obviously having some sort of party. Such events were not uncommon on that part of the beach, just beyond the San Onofre nuclear plant, because there were very few places where any access could be comfortably and safely made down from the long line of high cliffs that extended south and rose hundreds of feet into the air. When the ocean water was colder, almost too cold to swim or surf without a wetsuit during winter months or after a storm blew through, the nuclear plant cooling water discharges also allowed for the water to be considerably warmer than normal throughout the general area, an area that included Trestles Beach.
“They make me look cool,” Gularte answered in truth, which surprised me.
“Hell, you’re the coolest looking cop I’ve ever seen, and that’s without the glasses,” I replied, rewarding his truth with my own.
I looked down the beach, smiling to myself. Herberech was smarter, Turner more clever, Rodriguez actually better looking and Steed classier, but there was little question that Gularte was the coolest. That his presentation was mostly affected didn’t seem to take away from that fact.
The party was going great down beach. The smoke from several barbecues sent thin blowing tendrils of dark streaks back toward the cliff face. I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before, however. There was someone swimming in the surfline. One lone swimmer.
“Hand me the Leicas,” I said to Gularte.
With the wildly expensive lenses up to my eyes I surveyed the down beach scene at fifty times magnification. I stared at the water around the swimmer, better able to see it than the small figure bobbing up and over the great waves.
“What do you think the surf’s running?” I asked, more to myself than Gularte.
“Ten feet, with sets coming at maybe twelve to fourteen,” Gularte replied, his eye for wave sizes honed by his own time on a board at Trestles.
“Current’s running south,” I reflected, “Which is uncommon.”
“Yeah, that’s true, but so what?” Gularte asked.
“The river’s running a bit high too,” I added, sweeping the glasses from the river’s entrance to the sea and then down toward where the swimmer was.
“So…” Gularte said, spacing the word out to form a question.
“Fresh water, like the river, is lighter than salt water which is more dense, and then there’s the added warmth of the nuclear plant’s discharge water,” I relied.
“How in hell do you know stuff like that and why does it matter?” Gularte asked, his tone more one of irritation than question.
“Thermocline makes it matter here,” I said, “Let’s get across the tracks, up to the Coast Guard station and then onto the road past the plant,” I said.
“Why?” Gularte asked, making no move to put the Bronco in gear and turn the vehicle around.
“It wasn’t a request, it was an order,” I said back, “and right now.”
“Jesus Christ,” Gularte answered, throwing the Bronco into first gear, and making the specialized machine jump up from the loose sand and bounce. “I hate that Junior or lieutenant tone.”
I put the glasses down on the floor and turned to check out the rear area of the Bronco. There was nothing. No lifesaving gear at all, not even a lifebuoy, much less one of the very effective surf tubes the guards all carried with them wherever they went.
I grabbed the Motorola microphone from the dash and transmitted my call number. Bobby answered instantly.
“See if you can roll a guard jeep to the Marine beach just south of the San Onofre plant to back us up,” I said.
“That’s out of your area, Chastney’s not going to be happy,” Bobby sent back.
“We’re enroute right now by surface streets,” I said. “Don’t make me declare a code three over this, not yet anyway. It’s a swimmer, likely in trouble,” I finished.
I was taking a chance, I knew, by bringing the lifeguards into the situation, which might not be a situation at all. The swimmer hadn’t looked in real trouble, but the fact that he was out there alone bothered me, and that none of the Marines on the beach were taking notice of him out there at all. Chastney being the watch commander just made the whole thing potentially steeped in bad luck. If the swimmer was fine, then I’d be called on the carpet for going out of area as well as involving the lifeguards in the same thing, but that was only if the lifeguards responded. That factor was an unknown, I knew. It would depend upon what guard or guards were on duty since the weather had driven most everyone from every beach.
“Roll us code two,” I instructed Gularte, once we got to the top of the path-like passage up along the southern side of the compound and headed south.
I wasn’t going to ask to roll code three until I knew more. The asphalt road passed right by the plant only half a mile away before it ended at the security fence guarding Camp Pendleton Marine Base. However, turning toward the ocean along that fence allowed a vehicle like the Bronco to ride over the rocks and dunes and plunge right down to an unsecured opening to the railroad tracks and the sand.
Once across the tracks and finding a cut between the giant rocks guarding the tracks from high tide surf, I made Gularte stop the vehicle, facing the water. I pulled up the Leicas. The kid was still out there, as I spotted him immediately, trying to resurface each time a breaking wave struck him and pushed him back down. He was caught outside an inshore hole, no doubt dug by the very conditions I’d discussed with Gularte earlier. I quickly dropped the glasses and began stripping off my uniform.
“Drive toward the water, I’m going in,” I said, dropping my leather Sam Brown belt with cuffs, magnum and more, and then went to work on my boots.
“You’re going into that mess?” Gularte asked, easing the vehicle forward until the front tires were being hit by spent waves, but waves only a few inches high.
I opened the door, taking my shirt and trousers off until I stood in only my Jockey shorts, already beginning to shiver in the remnants of the storm’s cold winds coming in from across the water, filled with a spray of foam and water.
“You’re going out there?” Gularte said, his right index finger extended to point at my chest, his voice rising in volume against the continuous beating sound of the nearby sea. “Look at yourself, you’re still wearing bandages from that Gates thing. I should go.”
“BSA Lifeguard from the Boy Scouts, which you don’t have,” I replied, noting that Gularte was making no attempt to get rid of his own uniform.
I looked down the beach. Some of the Marines had taken notice of our presence and their fellow Marine now obviously in trouble. I had little time, I knew. If the Marine went under than the water was so stirred up with sand and foam then I’d never be able to find and pull him up in time.
I turned and ran at the surf, plunging as far out as I could before diving under the first incoming and breaking wave. It wasn’t as large as the more distant ones because I was still inside the sand bar that’d been formed by the swirling mix of fresh, warm and salty water. Up for air and then down again, using the breaststroke, my best, to be able to see exactly what was in front of me each time I came up.
Finally, I reached the sand bar just as the Marine came tumbling ‘over the falls’ once more. I didn’t see his face go by but knew he had to be near the end, as his struggling was diminishing rapidly, but I did see the green “T” shirt he was wearing, and I thanked God. All my lifesaving training with the scouts had been done in flat placid pool water environments. There was simply no way that an under-the-chin or across-chest carry was going to work in the nightmare of the roiling surf machine both of us were inside.
I got to him and flipped him as far up and around as I could. Another ten foot or larger swell heaped up to break. I grabbed the back of the Marine’s shirt up near his neck and pulled him down to the bottom with me. The wave passed, not without beating both of us hard down on the bottom. We surfaced, and I watched the Marine, with eyes slammed shut, gasp, before I dragged us down again. Each time we went down, which seemed like forever, I frog-kicked toward the outside. Finally, we broke free, the waves coming toward us only as large passing swells.
I struggled to recover myself while holding fiercely to the back of the Marine’s shirt. He was breathing. My bandages were gone from my wound, I knew. The Saran wrap hadn’t been able to handle the beating the waves had given us. I prepared for what had to come next. Our only hope would be to wait for a very large set and take the biggest wave. That wave, when it broke, with us riding atop it, would likely smash us over the sand bar and on into the inshore side, and thereby to relative safety until we could struggle onto the shore. I rode up on the first swell of what seemed to be the set I was waiting for. At the peak of the swell I turned and stared back at the shore, and what I saw changed everything.
Steve Bro and Bob Elwell were both running toward the water, their lifesaving tubes dragging along behind them on ropes.
I treaded water up and over the next swells with the Marine at my side, close enough to control but not so close as to allow any panic he might fall into when he came fully functional and awake again. His listless behavior was helping to save both of our lives. I knew the professionals were coming. The kind of lifesaving event I was involved with would be as nothing to them. Both were powerful, even championship, swimmers, young and tough as nails when it came to behaving in almost any ocean condition.
In short order the two lifeguards appeared, both having surfaced after a large swell passed over them. Bro swam to me and gently disengaged the Marine, instructing him to grab hold of the floating rescue tube. The Marine grabbed the spongy floating thing with both hands. Bob Elwell pushed his tube toward me and I took hold myself. Both men, without any comment began to swim pulling the Marine and me behind them. Neither used the breaststroke I’d used in coming out, instead powerfully using the Australian Crawl. We headed south I noted, not back in toward the shore. I realized that both guards had no doubt surveyed the scene upon their arrival and figured out that there was a point where the sandbar failed to extend itself. We moved for only a few moments, but I knew we were actually moving hundreds of yards, the breaking surf loud to my left and white-capped crests from the tops of the swells slapping my face on the right.
We finally turned toward the shore, and I wondered how Bob and Steve would get us through the break, but I quickly saw that there was no real plan. Both men simply swam right over the top of a breaking swell, and I was pitched forward to be pressed down once more by the crushing force of the water. Hands grabbed me and I was pulled toward the shore, the breaking waves now helping to push me in that direction, as well as Bob’s strong hands.
Once onshore I was able to crawl up to the drier sand, now surrounded by all the Marines from the party. Steve Bro dragged the Marine up to lay on his back beside me. We both lay there, trying to recover ourselves, staring up at Bob and Steve, as well as the other Marines.
One Marine, wearing only a green “T” shirt and red Marine shorts, leaned down.
“Those are bullet holes, I believe,” he said, pointing at the different ‘round star’ scars that laced across the front of my torso, each about the size of a coke bottle cap, and looking like the serrated caps too.
“And you’re bleeding from that center wound,” the older Marine commented, almost to himself. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” he finally asked.
“He works for the beach patrol now,” Bob mentioned, nodding down at me, as I deeply breathed in and out, but happy to be alive. I’d come close, I knew. I’d over-estimated my capability, since my being raised in Hawaii had so inured me to almost all fear of the sea or its large breaking waves. I wasn’t the surfer kid anymore, and never would likely be again. The price the A Shau was charging me was continuing but only apparent after a new charge was made.
“Looks and acts like a Marine, if you ask me,” the older Marine said. “I’m First Sergeant Galant, in charge of this party. You sure he isn’t a Marine?”
I stared up but said nothing.
“I think he’s still a lieutenant in the Corps,” Bob said. “He got shot over in the war and I think he’s only on loan to the police department, not that he should be making rescues under these conditions, or maybe under any conditions.”
“I’ll need his name, as the Corps doesn’t overlook things like what he did here. Not one of us on the beach could have done what he did, with your help, of course.”
Gularte appeared above me.
“You ready to go, lieutenant?” he asked, reaching down for me to grip his hand.
I grabbed his hand and let him pull me up, embarrassed to be standing erect wearing only my Jockey shorts, which were a poor replacement for a real swimming suit.
I stopped and turned my head back to look at Sergeant Galant.
“What’s his name?” I whispered.
“Lance Corporal Larry Young, he’s a good kid and a good Marine,” He replied.
Gularte guided me through the surrounding Marines, who parted silently before him. He opened the passenger door of the Bronco and pulled up on the lever that allowed the seat to be canted forward and allow entry into the back.
I crawled into the back seat, shoving my uniform and Sam Brown gear onto the floor and then laying down as best I could on the bench seat.
“Home,” I said. “Just take me home. I’ll make some calls so you can finish the shift with one of the other guys.”
Gularte drove south on the sand, faster than he could have driven on the hard surface roads. The Bronco was a smooth rolling and mildly tossing machine up on top of the soft sand. The run up through the train crossing gates was quick but barely noticed by me. I needed to shower, lay in a bed and sleep or pass out, or whatever.
“I’ve got to get cleaned up and rest,” I said, from down in the back seat. “We’ve got to meet and talk right away as soon as I can get up. And we’re going to need SCUBA gear and a tow truck.”
Gularte turned his head halfway around, a deep frown wrinkling his normally smooth forehead.
“There’s no way we’re pulling that Porsche out of the drink in secret,” he said, forcefully. “We didn’t even sink it in secret, obviously, and that could mean prison time for both of us.”
“Or worse,” I murmured, thinking of Cobb, the president’s scandal, the one time pad and more.
Once the Bronco was in the apartment’s driveway, I shakily accepted Gularte’s help in getting out and heading up the stairs. I made no effort to get my stuff, knowing Gularte would bring it all to my wife. At the front door I stopped. I pushed the doorbell button and leaned into the corner where the door was hinged.
My wife answered, took one look at me and said, “oh my God!” She helped me inside. “What in hell happened to you and where are your clothes?”
“Nothing, really,” I murmured easing toward the bottom of the stairs that went up to our bedroom and the master bath.
I heard Gularte come in behind me and start talking to my wife. I began to crawl up the stairs, one by one. I looked up and saw Julie standing there, looking down, Bozo sitting at her side and Mrs. Beasley between them. I smiled in spite of my condition. I was home.
I moved past the three of them in silence, trying to smile but not having any success at that. I picked up the phone and dialed Richard’s number. He answered on the first ring, as if sitting by the phone waiting. I didn’t tell him anything about what had happened, instead asking him to suit up and relieve me for the rest of the beach patrol shift.
All he said was “Aye aye, captain,” whatever that meant.
I peeled off the sandy underwear, shaking my head about wandering all over the place almost naked. Once standing under a hot shower, alone in the glass stall, I tried to put everything together. I realized that it made sense, all of it, but there also seemed little room for me to make all the parts I had some, but not total control over, work together to allow me and my family to survive, much less thrive. Money had been our greatest critical worry, or the lack of it, only months before, but now the need for money was in a position so far in the distance I wasn’t even aware of it as something to be concerned about. I had bigger problems. The Porsche, and what was in it, was possibly a life-or-death kind of problem.
Gularte and I had to get to it, if not to raise it, then to find out what was in the Frunk. I toweled off and went to bed, wondering how I was ever going to sleep…and then I was gone.
It is interesting that this chapter brings together real historic participants into a memoir that is claimed “fiction” to protect and allow the publishing!!!
Most war and recovery stories are questioned on the sheer reasoning that “all that stuff must be a meld long periods of action. This week we have pictures with real people, real accepted medals and actual participant stories that fit very close to the fiction……
Thank you Colonel! What a neat observation. Not one I made at all. But looking back at it I see your point. It’s kind of argue with
old newspaper clippings, Polaroid shots and some of the players piping in, none of them doing so with any denial or criticism whatever.
I am so happy that I made the difficult decision to use people’s real names. That’s a risk thing to do in this day and age.
Thanks for the usual high level of support and brilliant observation.
Semper fi,
My friend,
Jim
Instead of being relegated to the background, I see myself with a lot of other readers on the sideline, cheering you on! The way you write makes it easy to see myself in the story as a participant. Only good writers can accomplish that exceptional experience. I am just glad that your stories have not brought back the nightmares I had from my time in Vietnam. I also enjoy reading all the comments (maybe not all the needed text corrections though). I applaud the people you can count on to proof read for you. I wait impatiently for the next chapter and hope to add this series next to my Thirty Days has September.
Thanks Daniel, as this kind of in depth series of compliments touch me deeply. Sometimes I get stuck, not exactly writer’s block, but more a confounded thing, particularly when I
realize I’ve juxtaposed some circumstances and have them out of order. Then I have to go backwards and fix the mistake. I hate that. So, I read some comments, like your very
own, and then dig right in, re-energized by the readers. Most authors have silent readers but I would not hate that.
I must live up to your expectations, even though I only think about that when I’m reading answering the comments (of which I answer them all personally!) and not doing the writing.
I am on chapter XLIX right this minute so I will take up the pen
once again and get to it…ready to go…and thanking you.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow just Wow, Situational awareness in overdrive, your mind working in the background knowing that marine was in danger he wasn’t aware of. Acting intensly even if it ends up in a hatless dance.
The dramatic events around the characters and the porsche sleeping with the fishes, are just distractions about what really matters , that young marine’s life!
A mans character is judged by his actions, not his words. BZ James ! the world tested you that day and you rose up to the chalange rather than just watch it happen. The toughest part of my training was the life saving swimming, I didn’t know that you could sweat so much in the water! I am forever grateful I wasn’t put to such a test as you jumped into. B.Z. !!
Thanks for the most generous interpretation of what happened. You well written analysis is so complimentary. Larry Young wrote in the comments and that was uexpected
and wonderful, as did Bob Elwell, one of the guards. Great to relive this time with so much support.
Seper fi,
Jim
I thought I would share this. Here’s a shot of the Marines with 2nd Battalion 13th Marines, the unit which Larry Young belonged to. They are throwing me into a huge vat of ice upon hearing of the awarding of the Navy Marine Corps Medal…which was equivalent to winning coaches being showered with Gatorade. Wonderful!!!
I only saw this Polaroid today. My wife had it in an album, from th9se days, i never really looked in or paid much attention to.
She remembers the incident better than I because it was very uncommon for the Marines of the time to invite wives to anything.
Neat time. Larry Young is the 4th from the left Marine, icing me down because I was now supposedly too hot.
Semper fi,
Jim
Neat! Looks like a Jeep trailer filled with ice and “beverages”. The perfect way to keep things cold for a unit party. Apparently you also survived that experience.
Thanks DanC.
I was pretty much able to keep the wounds in check, at least from being viewed by others,
although the enlisted Marines I served with and was among viewed the scars more as badges of honor than anything else.
Civilians were another thing altogether so I always wore a shirt going to pools or at the beach…
and still do.
Thanks for the usual intelligent and caring DanC comment.
Semper fi, my friend
Jim
Intense chapter. I took BSA Lifesaving 60 years ago and it’s still imprinted in the recesses of my brain. That funky jump into deep water scissoring your arms and legs to keep your head above water and your eyes on the target. Tremendous courage on your part for what you did. Kudos!
Thanks a lot James, much appreciate your understanding and compliment. And the compliment of your own intense interest too and writing about it
on hrre.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, Is Julie hugging a cat ‘toy’ in the picture? I’ll have more later – Been off-line for a bit. Regards, Doug
Now that’s being observant! Yes, that was one of her favorite stuffed animals of the time, according to Mary, as I do not recall it. Mrs. Beasley was that one
that impacted me.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, No “tome”, simply about the cat Bozo. As soon as you introduced him, my mind (Such as it is.) went to “The Cat”. His decision to make your family part of his “pride” struck me. His ‘presence’ & his attitude around Julie – The fact that Julie ‘felt’ his care, his protection & being part of her family, resulted in (It seems to me.) making him “one of her favorite stuffed animals”. How long was Bozo part of your pride? Regards, Doug
Thanks for your recognition and care about Bozo. He was the first cat to impact my, and out, life. He made it almost ten years before passing one night sitting on the
floor late, right next to me watching lake night television. That he came from such a bitter and battered past, and then transitioned so quickly to what he became,
as basically the head of our ‘pride,’ taught me a lot about the animals around us that we take to be sub creatures but are really not…or don’t have to be. Thanks for
your wonderful comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was a guard on the beaches in and around San Clemente at the time Jim was head of the beach patrol. The event at Trestles Beach was only one of several I worked with him on, although the most treacherous, by far.
He, and the other officers who worked the beaches at that time got along great with Steve Bro and I and it was as fun as it was wildly strange.
Thanks Jim for putting this all in writing and making Steve and I look a little better than we actually were! I left the guard force in 1975 to becoming an insurance agent, taking over Jim’s business as he moved on to other things.
Thanks Bob, for coming on here and giving a bit of a description about our time together. Wild times
and your part in all of it was most admirable and filled with bits and pieces of courage, trust and honor.
Thank you for putting this up on the site for all to read.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
I so vividly remember those days.
Bob. I am honored to have had the opportunity to be your friend.
You were and are a stand-up Guy!
You are spot on, Chuck!
Intense chapter. I took BSA lifesaving 60 years ago and it’s still imprinted in the recesses of my brain. That funky jump into deep water scissoring your arms and legs to keep your head above water and your eyes on the target. Tremendous courage on your part for what you did. Kudos!
Thank you James, for that was one of my better days, and as much as some people think I was wrong to risk it, I didn’t and don’t think so. Larry Young proved well worth the effort
and the risk. One of the strange things about the mystique and social structure of the Marine Corps is that all Marines are your Marines…as you are their very own.
Thanks for the compliment and the support…
Semper fi,
Jim
Absolutely amazing, as always!
I think many veterans are being helped by your writing. Semper Fi!
Thanks so much Steve. I am really buoyed up by your comment and can only hope that this monumental effort in writing
is having a decent effect on those vets who may be able to use it and gain something from it.
Semper fi,
Jim
LT if it wasn’t for your awareness of your surroundings your ability to see things before they unfold that Marine would have surely drowned. That goes all the way back to the Valley
Thanks Tony for the great compliment in your writing, and for putting it up on here.
Really makes me feel great!!!
Semper fi,
Jim
One of the most amazing episodes in the series so far.
I eagerly await the next chapter you are so kindly sharing.
It has been so long since I read your “Thirty Days hasSeptember”.
I did not remember General Dwyer was the officer who sent you into the Ashau valley.
Thanks so much for the great comment John, and also, in the past few days, buying my whole set of 30 Days. The USPS tracking number is:9549012776835271767718And your
should receive the books next Thursday, according to the local office here. I make about three bucks a book on the sales so I much appreciate the purchase, as it all helps significantly
to keep this ‘ship of state’ on an even keel and sailing along, chapter after chapter.
Semper fi, and much appreciate he depth of your compliments too.
Jim
Oh what a tangled web you weave!! Great James! Hope telling it helps you? HAROLD
It is, indeed, a bit cathartic to lay it all out and even now, sometimes figure out stuff I really didn’t understand at the time.
It was hard to believe the Kennedy assassination stuff I was being handed but much much easier today. Nowadays only the mass media nand
government bother to say that the lone assassin up in the book depository did it. Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Once again, this edit is about the forward to the chapter, and not the chapter itself. I leave that to your blue pencil posse, who do such a great job.
Sails are normally struck or reefed in preparation for weather. Hatches are battened. The battens are the strips of wood that stiffen the edges of the canvas covers of the hatches.
As a life long sailor, and a bit of a pedant, I notice minutiae like that. Having a career as an aviation QC inspector probably helped as well.
Another great chapter I might add.
I take umbrage at those that say you did a stupid thing. When you have been swimming all your life, at the age you were, you dive in. I too was a water dog, and would have done the same at that age.
Simper fi Jim
Thanks for the support on the swimming thing Tim. Most of the population loves pools, water and beaches but not many are truly
‘water dogs’ as you term us. You are no doubt right about the sailing jargon as I, although an able bodied seaman in the Merchant Marine during
college years, was never much of a real sailor. Almost all my experience through life has been aboard powered craft, and not wind powered.
Thanks for the support.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow you sure are an amazing man !!!
That’s one incredible life you lead
Happy you survived to tell this amazing life story !!!
Can’t wait to see what’s next !! Thank you
Thanks so much Tim for your expression of opinion about me on here. My opinion isn’t quite so high but I smile at your very own.
I will certainly accept the obvious fact that my life has been incredible and remains so. I wonder about God, serendipity and
sometimes just being placed here and there where certain visible crossroads exist. Thanks for the compliment too…
Semper fi,
Jim
Very incriminating evidence hidden in the “frunk” not to Sonny Boy but to Daddy and his cronies ? It couldn’t be retrieved before you were detailed with making the Porsche disappear and now they want you to get whatever it is back ? The irony of this chapter is your saving of the Marine who you later befriend and he responds to this chapter but it’s the awarding of the Navy Marine Corps Medal by that asswipe General who sent you deliberately into that Hell called the A Shau Valley . Nuff said .
The strange irony of Dwyer coming back to the command the base were I was assigned to was shocking, just as my old rotten C.O. in Treasure Island ended up too. Life can
be so surprising. I never charged Dwyer a price for what he did, as I think he barely noticed. It was his Chief os Staff that was royally pissed at my most
appropriate but out of place comment upon arriving in country. Thanks for your usual intelligently thought out comment and thanks for being here all along the way.
Semper fi,
Jim
“Top Medal”?
The Navy Marine Corps Medal is the top medal the naval military awards for non-combat valor. It’s rather uncommon and is sometimes confused
by viewers to the Combat Action ribbon which has the same colors but referred in order and two little vertical line in the center.
The newspaper article made it sound like I’d been awarded the Medal of Honor which bothered me at the time.
Thanks for the inquiry
Great read as usual. Anticipating the next installment. One proofread aster the Saran-Wrap note “ I prepared for what had to come nest”.
Thanks Jim, for the help and the great compliment.
Sempe fi,
Jim
Jim,
It is heart warming seeing you reconnect with another Marine.
The memory of those comrades whom you faced imminent harm or death will stick with you forever.
Semper Fi,
Troy
Yes, and writing of ‘connecting,’ I must admit that I would never have expected or believed the connection that has occurred with readers and vets like you. It has been overwhelmingly relieving and relaxing to experience the kind of commentary you are reading right now on this sight. I have been able to go at the work now with a chapter a week, a track record I could never have equalled before all this came alive and happened. I cannot thank you enough for the support and writing about it all on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
I swear, this is one of the best chapters yet. The imagery is so vivid I feel I’m living it myself. Wow.
Just a couple edit comments:
and never would likely be again – likely never
when he came fully functional – when he became
what had to come nest – next
without beating both of hard – both of us hard
and I thanked god. All my lifesaving training with he scouts – God … the scouts
Oh, and great photo of the newspaper clipping.
Wow, just wow.
Thanks Matt. That was a clipping from the San Clemente Sun Post, as daily of that time. It kind of gave me fits at the time because the headline
made it seem like I was awarded the Medal of Honor, which I was not. Many people don’t read the articles but just look at the headlines. Thanks for the editing help too…and the compliments!
Semper fi,
Jim
My minds picture of that Porche in the basin has had me thinking bad thoughts for the past two chapters that you have finally borne out. Looking forward to seeing how you resolved this not inconsiderable problem. Cobb seems to have been quite the character to have involved in your life. Quite the ballsy move you made to jump in and save that Marines life, especially after Gularte pointed out your condition. Great chapter, Lt.
Thanks Rick. Some vets have written in and kind of castigated me for being stupid. I really did underestimate just how much recovery I had ahead of me with respect to getting over the enormity of the wounds I’d suffered. The “Hawaii” surf kid rose up in me and once you are really a ‘water dog’ like that you see the sea, any sea state, as easily able to work with and through. Only out there, until I spotted Elwell and Bro on the beach diving in, did I think Young and I might make it. I wasn’t sorry at that point. Afraid but but not sorry. I like to think any Marine officer with my swimming, lifesaving training and surf background would have done exactly the same thing. Later, I was quietly surprised that among the entire battalion-sized party on the beach, the Marines there mostly stood looking out to sea instead of diving in. FNG syndrome, once again. It was a rough high surf condition but it wasn’t THAT bad. My opinion only. Top Galant, the 1st Sergeant of the outfit, later contacted me in San Clemente. He was a wonderful man.
Semper fi,
Jim
Helluva great chapter for my birthday present, Jim – many thanks!
Your character, Cobb, intrigues me as much as she did you. What could be her goal, her assignment, and from whom? The woman with a secret, to be sure.
Great work on that water rescue, and the writing of it. Being on the Florida Atlantic coast, I never experienced swimming in such a tough surf. Saw it plenty while at the Point Mugu Missile Test Center, but never tried surfing – that Pacific along there is COLD! Thanks for yet another great reading experience. Semper Fi, my friend.
The water was cold, but back then, I was taking about an hour every morning to run as far as I could on the beach (slow, because of my recovery) and then swim out and mess around beyond the break to cool down before going home, so I was kind of conditioned and ready for the weakening power of colder water on the body. Thanks for the interest and just how close your are following the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
A couple of typos found :
lifesaving training with *he scouts had been done (*the)
to come nest*. Our only hope would (*next)
Helluva job on the rescue, I remember being slammed to the bottom by those waves myself, not only hurting but causing me to lose my breath as well…
Once again it seems as though Cobb knows “things” !!! Hmmm…
What secrets are to be found in the yellow submarine and just how are you going to access the frunk without surfacing it, thus the scuba gear and a plan is forming !!! 😉
Great chapter James,
Semper Fi
Thanks for the help, as usual, SgtBob. Also, the compliments you always give me.
You are among the best and most regular readers I have and it’s such a pleasure to open this site up in the morning and see
your name right there.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Well done Sir, well done! As for the Porsche????? can’t wait for the next chapter. I have heard the a good leader leads his troops into battle, you sure do fit that to a “T”. Semper fi Lt!!
Much appreciate your evaluation of me as a leader. I haven’t always agreed with that but have tried to live it.
Your kind of comment helps keep me going!
Semper fi,
Jim
Ah..the Navy Marine Corps Medal; Ballsy move and luckily the professionals arrive before the rest of those Marine decided to help.
Also very intriguing what Dad would hide in his son’s car and not tell him? Sounds like you are not finding the answer without recovery the car!!
Yes, the medal I might have deserved the most! Highest non-combat decoration for valor, but one almost nobody knows about and among the rarest of all those presented.
So, I was and remain happy about that one and the recontact with Larry Young, the guy I was able to save…eventually with some help.
Thanks for the great comment, as usual.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
My cousin David S. Keith, who was Army Special Forces, received the Soldiers Medal in 1969 for hauling a paratrooper who had fouled his static line back into the C47 transport. He had two tours in Vietnam and like you, felt that the Soldiers Medal was the only one he really deserved. Acts of personal bravery such as those are examples of humanity of the highest order.
Thanks James. I’m not sure how such actions ae generated at the moment for men like your cousin. such actions would not be my last,
as you will read, with plenty of proof. But I never performed them with aforethought. They just seemed to happen. I followed a path, like
with Larry Young, that seemed to be Larry getting further and further into real trouble, then, when I was proven correct, I simply followed the
rest of what seemed so natural.Afterwards, I was as amazed as everyone around me.
Thanks for that great writeup as I work ever deeper into the next chapter this night.
Semper fi,
Jim
All these events occured when I was the same age as the LT. I know this is just a story but it has been woven with threads of historical fact. I have friends who worked in the WH at this time and from the stories I have been told I can imagine that it could all be real.
Thanks Dan, for the comment and I understand your doubts about the veracity of it all.
I am pulling this all from diary entries and memory, not to mention some papers I was able to abscond with.
You have to decide. I write it all as fiction, like my combat series, simply because I want to
be able to live the rest of my life on the outside.
Glad you liked the ‘story’ though.
Semper fi,
Jim
One more thing, Dan. Only last night, coming home from dinner, my wife, who had just read the last two chapters (she seldom reads any of my work), turned and asked: “Did you really sink Mardian’s Porsche?” She was there, at home, at the time. I didn’t answer, not knowing whether to admit or deny the occurrence. I just kept driving and turned the radio on. She turned it off, and then commented: “That was a really shitty thing to do, even if he was crude and a spoiled brat.” I am admitting nothing. My wife has not always approved of my conduct.
Semper fi,
Jim
Perhaps I missed it, but after you left the Ashau, did you ever see the gunny again? Seems like he must have contributed much of what went into your records. Was curious about whether he survived as well.
The Gunny survived, uninjured, and was promoted later to 1st Sergeant. I ran into him in New Mexico, quite by accident in 1984. We talked very very briefly
before making an appointment to get together the following week. He never showed. Went to his house and his wife told me that he could not talk to me.
I left and have never made another attempt to see or talk to him. We all handle combat action, and surviving, in different ways. I didn’t understand then but I sure as
hell do today.
Semper fi, hope that helps.
Jim
I have read each book in the series as they were released and eagerly await each chapter. Yours on hell of a story.
No wonder your last name is Prince. Thanks so much for your heartfelt compliment and your faithful support, and for
writing about that on this site. That compliment at the end of your comment was and is great.
Semper fi,
Jim
I am amazed at the sticky situations you were caught up in. You seem to have a Forrest Gump like ability to be involved in so many of the events that changed our world. I can’t wait for the movie and I certainly eagerly await the next chapter. Thank you for sharing your story
John Smith, your books are in the mail and on the way. Thanks for getting the whole set and having the books specially inscribed.
I hope my penmanship was up to the task! Hollywood hasn’t called! I don’t expect the call. Most of what I write is simply
not credible for eighty percent of the public, or more…and from experience there, I know Hollywood has very few veteran writers
or producers.But I certainly thank you for the compliment!
Semper fi, and hope you enjoy the books.
Jim
They likely believed they that I knew something they needed to know. Drop the second they.
Thanks Michael for the help!
Semper fi,
Jim
What a chapter! what is in the frunk? The picture of ted Cruz father pulling the trigger on the Grassy KnoLL?
The sales technique you’re describing is known as “the silent close” or using silence strategically in sales. It’s based on the idea that in a negotiation or sales pitch, the person who breaks the silence first is often the one who is more eager to make a deal or compromise. This technique can create a sense of discomfort or pressure on the other party, encouraging them to speak or make a decision. It can be effective because it puts the onus on the potential buyer to respond or take action, potentially leading to a sale.
However, it’s important to use this technique carefully and ethically, as prolonged silence can also backfire and create a negative impression if it’s perceived as manipulative or overly aggressive. It’s essential to strike the right balance and ensure that both parties feel comfortable during the negotiation process.
I learned it in OCS on how to get PLATOON members to talk. Has served me well in life and as a father. lol
your BRAVE BUT STUPID and successful RESCUE ATTEMPT reminded me of how you got your Navy Cross.
I was good swimmer as A KID – MOSTLY in pools and Lake Michigan both in Chicago and Wisconsin. I got the Red Cross WSI in between my junior and senior years of highschool and was a lifeguard at he local Y. I college I was a lifeguard at Several pools where one could study, check out chicks, and earn good $.
One summer I cam home to taker two course at Loyola nights to lighten my load doting football season, and worked as a life guard at Oak street beach. Lake Michigan could be a bitch- saving people was dangerous sometimes due to undertows, high waves , really cold water and teenage stupidity.
I know that party beach neat San Onofre often attended midnight mass there. The Pacific is an unforgiving master- you are lucky to be alive. Don’t think I would have made it Congrats on doing the hero thing. It will be interesting to see the next chapter. We all know your a survived. Thank God you did. Ever wonder why some people cross paths later in life like we did? I know divine intervention is involved