I rolled off the cushioned bench seat behind the table and onto the floor, my fake Bacardi Coke coming down on top of me, like it was seeking some sort of safety itself. The neat crystal glass rolled across the hardwood floor to stop before my eyes. There was no shot fired that I could tell, although the House of the Rising Sun lyrics were coming out of huge speakers at a volume that would have partially concealed it. I checked myself out as best I could in my soaked supine position. When I’d been shot before in the A Shau Valley the pain had been so unbearable that only the corpsman, finally reaching me, could minimize using a couple of his morphine syrettes.
My knowledge of lasers being used for targeting was nearly non-existent, as rationality overcame my initial reactive fear. Climbing to my feet I turned slightly to see that the big red dot was illuminating a spot on the cushion I’d been sitting in front of. I noted that the laser tower, the one seemingly attached to the top of my table, was reflecting that light off the course it was intended to stay beamed on.
A waiter came to ask me if I was okay, which I wasn’t, knowing my evening of foolish relaxation was over. I noticed that the laser poles with the small reflecting mirrors atop them weren’t set on the tables, but driven deep into the floor, obviously put in that way to keep the beam from hitting anyone in the eyes.
“That’s bad pole,” the waiter said in broken English, leaning over the tabletop to readjust the mirror. “Sometimes, things here bounce from drink set on table.”
It took a few seconds to realize what the waiter was doing. Whatever had happened was my own fault, the way he was playing it, anyway. The piano bar wasn’t proving to be as hospitable as I’d first thought.
Once outside, wet and smelling like a brewery, I decided to call it a night, waving down and then catching an unknown tuk-tuk and giving the driver the name of my hotel. The incident at the ‘piano bar’ had upset me and I no longer felt like my first mission was an adventure. Danger, either real or imagined, seemed to lurk everywhere and at all times. For the first time since arriving in Korea, I felt alone in a strange land, almost like the great science-fiction author Robert Heinlein had written about. I was truly a stranger in a strange land, but not a land populated by aliens, but instead populated by humans who were so different in many ways that they might as well have been aliens.
I got out of the tuk-tuk and handed the driver a twenty, my usual payment for a tuk-tuk ride. The machine took off as I turned to discover I wasn’t in front of my hotel, instead, I stood looking down a long narrow road, more an alley than a road, wherein white tents ran up and down both sides, all made of white canvas with most dimly lit by faintly flickering lights inside. The road could have passed for a road lined with great glowing lanterns or maybe hot air balloons with the burners running. There had been talk about Itaewan as the place I received my now returned shoulder holster rig, but the distinctive reality was anything but what I might have guessed would be a thronging shoppers’ paradise.
A flat two-wheeled cart passed slowly by me and headed down the road. It was overloaded with automotive batteries. I frowned, wondering why there would be any market for such things in such an obvious night market area. The cart stopped not far in front of where I stood. The man who’d been laboriously pushing the thing pulled a battery from the top, walked to a tent, and bent down. The dim light inside the tent died. The man stood up, carrying a different battery. The owner of the tent walked out and handed the man a wad of local currency. It hit me then. There was no electricity up and down the street. The strange low lights were all D.C. powered by car batteries. Before finding another ride to get me back to the hotel I decided to walk down the road.
Each tent specialized in selling only one product. Tennis shoes, socks, underwear, work shirts and so much more were on display with the street-facing side of the tents wide open.
One tent was a restaurant, so I walked to the makeshift counter. Half the tent was covered in small picnic tables, all with white paper on them. A few locals sat eating and drinking. I decided that if the locals thought the food was good then it probably was.
“Yoboseyo,” the woman behind the counter said.
“Anyonghaseo,” I replied, using about the only Korean I knew. Both words or phrases meant hello, although the response I’d given was seldom used first.
I took out one of my U.S. twenty-dollar bills and put it on the counter between us. The woman picked it up immediately and then put it in a drawer off to the side. She pointed over at the array of tables. I shook my head, understanding but not understanding and went to an empty table and sat down, thankful there were no laser beams or mirrors in the tent.
A few minutes passed before the woman appeared from behind me, carrying a cutting board, a white porcelain plate, a bowl, and a butcher knife. She said nothing, putting everything down and then disappearing behind me again. I examined the bowl, which appeared to be filled with thin fish-like things swimming in endless circles.
When the woman returned, she set a small stack of Korean Won near my right hand and a big glass of white liquid near my left. I didn’t count the currency as the amount didn’t matter to me. I folded and shoved the money into my right pocket.
Quickly and very deftly the woman reached into the bowl with her left hand while holding the butcher knife in her right. Taking only a few seconds she laid one of the ‘fish’ on the board, at which point I realized the fish wasn’t a fish at all, but an eel. She chopped down and cut the eel into half a dozen pieces before repeating the procedure two more times.
Finishing her task, the woman dumped the cut-up eels onto the place, took the knife, bowl, and board, and departed back the way she’d come.
The whole routine I witnessed was like a small stage play. I was surprised and entranced as I stared down at the plate. The woman came back with a tray of sauces and a bottle of what appeared to be soy sauce and was gone again.
The eels, all cut up, kept moving on the plate. There was no way I could eat something that was still alive, not without throwing it back up, I knew.
I took a swig of the white liquid and almost choked. The white liquid was some sort of wine but the alcohol content had to be above that of regular hard whiskey. I swallowed because there was no place to spit it out.
I got up and headed for the front of the tent, knowing I had to pass before the woman. I glanced at her and watched her face break into a big smile.
Once outside I smiled too. She’d known all along that there was no way an American might find what she served at all acceptable, the real surprise was that she’d given me change back from the twenty.
Back at the top of the street or alley, I waved down another tuk-tuk. This time I paid attention to where the machine was going. I’d had more than enough of Seoul and Korea itself for the night.
Once back at the hotel, it did truly feel like I’d come home. Korea seemed to end at the front doors, as everyone inside spoke English and the amenities were all Western in culture and content. The only Koreans I encountered at the hotel were employees.
I stripped out of my clothing and called room service. Ordering two cheeseburgers and fries and a coke, I immediately felt better, the image of the twisting and turning pieces of eel on that plate not wanting to completely disappear from my mind. My clothing would be cleaned and pressed in the night, I was assured, and the charge put on my bill.
After drying myself off from a long hot shower I threw the hotel robe on and laid atop the bed. My wife did these breathing exercises if she couldn’t sleep. I thought of her and called because the time change was about right to catch her in mid-day. I wanted to eat and relax a bit first, however.
There was a knock at the door. I presumed that the food had arrived, although the timing was a little off. How could they cook the burgers in that short a time and get them to my room in such short order I had no clue about it.
I opened the door, but the food wasn’t there. A Caucasian man in his mid-twenties stood before me, wearing a suit and accompanied by Bulldog, also wearing a civilian suit and not his normal Marine uniform.
Stepping back in surprise was taken as my welcoming both men into the room, not that there was going to be any question about that I knew. Eating and relaxation were going to have to wait, as well as getting dressed to go down to the lobby and call my wife.
There was only one chair in the room which the younger man sat down on. Bulldog sat on the edge of my bed.
“Do you know who I am?” the young man said, his tone forceful and filled with self-importance.
I was irritated, not by the visit but by the attitude. I realized that it was a good thing I’d returned the .45 as it might just have come out into sight.
“You’re from the embassy, or Bulldog wouldn’t be acting as your guard, but you’re not the ambassador because they don’t let teenagers serve in that capacity.”
“I’m Christopher Hill, communications officer, and I’m here on the ambassador’s orders.”
“You can call him Chris, or Bulldozer, his nickname,” Bulldog said, letting me know he had little use for the man.
There was another knock at the door, this one very light. I knew it had to be the food. I went over and opened the door again.
The waiter pushed a cart before him with metal-covered plates atop it.
Bulldog jumped up off the bed as I went to my trousers and pulled the stack of Korean Won from my pocket and handed it to the waiter. He bowed deeply and departed without saying a word, although looking at both Bulldog and Bulldozer strangely as he left.
“Got to inspect this, you know,” he said, taking one of the metal tops off a plate.
Before I could say a word he was pulling one of the cheeseburgers off the plate and biting into it.
“Not bad,” he said with his mouth full and walking back toward the bed.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Bulldozer said as I wondered if he’d grab the other burger before I got to it.
“The ambassador sent you because you’re the sheriff and I’m being kicked out of town, I presume,” I replied, with a little laugh.
“You come to the embassy and turn the place upside down,” Hill said, using his only apparent voice tone, which was filled with anger. “You use our encrypted communications system without proper authorization for God knows what purpose. You come in using a Marine officer I.D. card instead of a passport and you even somehow involve a Vietnamese guy in whatever you’re up to. You’re damned right we want you out of here.”
“I really am a Marine officer,” I said walking to the nightstand to get my wallet.
I don’t need your I.D. card,” Hill spit out. “You’re no more a Marine officer than you are an insurance agent. I thought you might be connected to the CIA but that agency doesn’t send agents in to be bulls in a china shop like you’ve demonstrated.”
“More properly, that would be a bull in a china shop, as there’s only just me, and what is this bull thing, anyway? Bull-dog, Bull-dozer, and now the bull in the china shop. It would appear that the State Department only sends its strangest and most different characters to serve in this odd ally of a country.”
I took the other burger from the plate. Bulldog had downed his burger in huge gulps like they didn’t feed the employees at the embassy well enough.
Since I was not being openly outed as a spy I felt some success. Maybe the Agency had some sort of logic for sending me out without training. I was certainly going home with a whole load of lessons.
There was another knock at the door, which I presumed was a bellman to pick up the cleaning. As I opened the door for the third time I saw that I was wrong again. It was the two agents or cops or security or mafia guys.
“Oh, just come on in but please tell me that neither of your names starts with the word bull.”
My humor was lost on them, I knew, as I backed into the bathroom to let them pass by.
Hill got to his feet, as did Bulldog.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” Hill said, turning his ire onto the cops.
“We come to investigate the attempt on this person’s life using an arrow, as has been reported to us,” the older cop said.
“What arrow?” Hill and Bulldog said together.
“The arrow shot into this man’s back,” the younger cop said.
“This is just too good,” Bulldog said, laughing out loud. “You have won no popularity contests since you’ve been here lieutenant.”
“Not my back,” I said, wondering why I was explaining at all. “The arrow was shot into the back of the seat of Ho, my tuk-tuk driver. It wasn’t intended to hurt me. There was a message in its tip.”
“And it gets better,” Bulldog replied, not being able to stop laughing.
“What message,” the older cop asked, nobody laughing except for Bulldog.
“When are you leaving?” Hill asked as he stood up, his voice for the first time not filled with outrage or anger.
“It’s my room,” I replied, so tired I simply didn’t want to deal with any of them anymore.
“When are you leaving the country?” Hill went on remaining calm, and ignoring my humor.
“That was the message,” I said. “It seems that I’m not that popular here. I’m leaving in the morning on the United flight to California, unless my citizenship has been revoked, or something.”
“That was the message?” Bulldog asked. “Somebody shot an arrow at you to get you to leave?”
“It’s a very old tradition in this culture, or of the cultures here long gone. Americans simply come to your hotel room in the middle of the night. Both equally effective.”
“We’re out of here, I think, sir,” Bulldog said to Hill. “The cops can deal with or escort him to the airport, or whatever,” He stopped at the food cart and took the second metal cover off the only other plate. “Mind if I take one of those fries with me. The embassy doesn’t have a French fryer. They’ll be cold but still remind me of home.”
“Take whatever you like,” I said with a smile. “I’ll just order some more when you’re gone.”
Bulldog grabbed the two paper bags of fries and walked toward the door, whispering as he passed, “Semper fi, Marine, didi mau,” he said.
“I hope we never see you again,” Hill said. “And you damn well better be on that plane or you’ll have worse things to worry about than losing your citizenship.”
Bulldozer followed Bulldog out the door.
The older cop looked around the room before speaking to his evident subordinate. “We must have another chair to wait until morning here.”
I walked toward the bed and opened the drawers to the cupboard. I got dressed as quickly as I could, gathering up my wallet, passport, and cash.
“I must see the American ambassador’s communications director in the lobby before he leaves. I will be right back. You can call room service on my nickel for another chair. You have all my things here so I’ll be right back.”
I walked quickly across the room and then out the door, which I closed after me, hoping the surprise of my temporary exit would not result in their rushing after me. I ran to the elevator and pushed the button, hoping that neither ‘cop’ nor both of them would appear before it came. The elevator dinged and the doors opened.
I rushed inside and hit the lobby button.
Once in the lobby, I saw Bulldog standing outside the front door. I raced to him.
“Wasn’t sure you’d get the message,” he said, “but I’d have put cold hard cash down that you would. We can’t take you in the embassy vehicle but your tuk-tuk driver is waiting, anyway.
I looked out toward the road to see Ho leaning on his machine.
Didi mau was a slang phrase used in Vietnam, meaning ‘get the hell out of here.’ Bulldog walked to the car without saying anything further about what he’d said, however. What did he know that I didn’t? The warning had been plain.
Once at the car, Bulldog turned to face me holding the car door open.
“You can have them package up what’s left in the room and ship it to you back in the States. Done all the time here. You got everything you need for the trip home, I presume?”
I nodded, not wanting to say anything with Hill sitting in the front passenger seat. Bulldog got in the car, and I watched it drive away before heading over to where Ho stood waiting. But he wasn’t waiting. He was behind the wheel shaking his fist up and down, like truckers would sometimes do to indicate more speed.
The two cops were running toward me. I ran to the tuk-tuk and leaped in as Ho gave it the gas. We pulled away with the younger cop almost being able to grab hold of one of the bars that held up the top or roof of the thing, but he was inches too late.
Ho drove like a madman for several blocks before pulling over.
“We run from police,” he said, breathlessly. “I must live here. Great risk. Not police but are police, you understand?
I didn’t but said I did. I reached into my pocket and took out the entire wad of cash. I counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over.
“You need a vacation, Ho, with your family, after we make a run for it to the airport.”
“No airport, you hear sirens, they come, find you at the airport. No, we go to soup bowl, never find us there and airport in morning.”
Once more Ho drove at top speed, leaving me to wonder about how I was supposed to get through passport control and security at Gimpo Airport, one of the newest and most secure in the world. If I made it to the airport. The message in the tip of the arrow had been a serious warning indeed.
<<<<<< The Beginnining | Next Chapter >>>>>>>
Jim,
This chapter had variable speeds – Winding down a bit, getting ready to come home, but still ‘learning’ about piano bars. “For the first time since arriving in Korea, I felt alone in a strange land” – Again, not having to ‘think and plan’ so much while going 120 mph. Still, why did the first tuk-tuk not take you to the hotel?
Stating “that they might as well have been aliens” – In this case, maybe you were the “alien”? I think most folks would have thought that.
The ‘visit’ from the Embassy – Bulldog and the “self-important” young man. How did they know you were back at your hotel?
Great use of your ‘humor’ – The type folks get ‘right away’ or not at all. If fact, some folks will feel as if you’re insulting them – Which of course in this case, me thinks you are.
“Do you know who I am?” the young man said, his tone forceful and filled with self-importance.”
“not the ambassador because they don’t let teenagers serve in that capacity.” Putting him in his place rather nicely.
Then the arrival of the other guys – Again, how did they know you were back? Followed by the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ guys or just a coincidence? Your humor was definitely lost on the Koreans.
Then Bulldog’s warning – “Bulldog grabbed the two paper bags of fries and walked toward the door, whispering as he passed, “Semper fi, Marine, didi mau,”. Yeah, he knew things you didn’t.
And your reaction – “I must see the American ambassador’s communications director in the lobby before he leaves. I will be right back. You can call room service on my nickel for another chair. You have all my things here so I’ll be right back.” Back up to 120 mph, unexpectedly hosing them down with too many things to ‘think’ about, giving you at least the chance of the time you needed to ‘exit, stage right”.
The return of the ‘knowledgeable’ Ho and a temporary ‘safe space’. Looking forward to getting thru the airport and home.
Regards from your LLS friend,
Have a nice Labor Day,
Doug
Thanks for the in depth editorial reading and then comment LLS Danko, whatever the letters LLS mean. Like maybe a lesser
version of LDS? Anyway, thanks for the help here and mysteries that continuously haunt the work because of unanswered
question or strange illogical appearances or knowledge. The CIA knew, and probably knows, a whole lot more and less than we think.
Thanks for the great friendship and glad you got the latest book.
Semper fi, my great friend,
Jim
Jim,
The chapter begins with some humorous Laurel and Hardy-esque type misadventures into Korean culture, but ends with you needing to make a mad dash with boy Ho who will tuk-tuk you to safety. Oh boy, that Ho boy! You went from zero to 60 in no time flat in this chapter. Another fine mess you have gotten us into, Ollie. BTW, I do get a kick out of the humor you use in your chapters.
THE WALTER DUKE. Racking toward unknown disaster, ore likely than rescue. As you will see in the next
chapter as I try to extricate myself from another great mess I’ve gotten myself involved in, or the Agency,
being blind as a bat to anthropology or history, does for me. Thanks for the usual great comment
and your compliment at the end.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim,
Submitted my comment several days ago, but it has yet to appear. Perhaps because I have a new Chromebook that replaced my laptop that took a tumble and died?
THE WALTER DUKE. Apple. MacBookpro. That’s the standard. Sorry your comment has not come through.
I will be on the alert.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Love you writing Jim, and now I find we have a slight connection, Jim Homan is friends with my sister in law, very small world
Truly small in some ways today William. June and Jim are just jewels to have around and to count on and be counted on by them.
Thanks for the neat compliment about the writing. The other two Cowardly books, II and III are out now with the rewrite of the first one
coming out next week. I get in trouble with printers over using some of the lyrics of early rock and roll…but they grow silent when I tell tham
that I bought all the old Armed Forces Radio reel to reel tapes and have those in my basement. You see, before many groups made any real money by touring and big contracts the US government would buy the songs to have on air over in the Nam. Government would only acquire them if they were put out over
the open air which means that those songs don’t have to be rented from the groups that made them or their heirs.
Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Seems you have a new cliffhanger at the end of every chapter. Wow! Hope you never had to return to Korea! Sure there were other Countries just as bad. Looking forward to the adventure getting home again!
122 countries in total. My wife used to keep a huge wall map and put pins in the places I was in until it got to be too much.
I will return to Korea time after time although I got much better about being in Korea as someone else.
Koreans, as a culture, are rock tough deep down and cannot be abused too much or too often.
Being a field agent is different than being an analyst for the Agency.
Out on a mission for days or weeks and then back home for at least that much time.
Allowed for the raising of a normal family, as long as you survive it.
Most missions give no real clue about whether they’re going to be boring as hell or life-threatening.
Semper fi,
Jim
As you eloquently stated he sounds like a first class prick. You must have laughed your ass off when he found out it was you who stole his diplomatic passport. Thanks for the usual outstanding chapter. Enjoy your time with Ho at the soup place.
Funny thing about the black passport (diplomatic) is that anyone carrying it didn’t get much scrutiny. Nobody wants much to do with people
who get a free pass for almost all potential criminality or rule breaking. Don’t try using it coming home though, even back then. Today the whole game, what with the vast leaps in technology, is a whole new ball game. Loved that soup and Ho too.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow!!!! that’s all I can come up with, WOW
That’s enough to come up with Bob. Much appreciated.
Semper fi,
Jim
Your slippery as those eels you didn’t eat LOL great chapter
Well, mostly accidentally slippery as it’s easy be slippery when everything under you
is made of polished ice. Thanks for the comment and the compliment.
Semper fi,
Jim
well I have seen your bull in the China shop routine at the Hideaway however it’s mild compared to what you went through there what a crazy story I’m not sure what the objective of everything was and what your objective was and if you even achieved it fascinating writing have you ever considered a career as a writer?
Rich, I have always been a perfect gentleman at the Hideaway…not that I ever admit to being there.
I considered a career as a writer years ago, but thought it would not earn me much money. Later in life
I decided to try it anywhere and promply and over time proved that my initial conclusion was correct.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
I found Seoul in 1988 similar in many ways. People outwardly nice, but don’t trust or let your guard down. At a traditional Korean restaurant, I did have A bite of eel. More I chewed, the bigger it got. Excused myself and as soon as I got out of sight, RAN to the bathroom and threw up everything. After cleaning up and returning to the table, my Korean working partner leaned over and said, “ I can’t stand that s**t, either”. Airport security was pedestals about every 50 yards with two guys with M-16s standing on each one. They weren’t smiling or nice.
Thanks for the verification of some of the experience in this last chapter. Yes, Korea is a lot more civilized today but back
then it was strangely advancing rapidly in recovery while remain as wild in some areas as the old American West was purported to
have been. Thanks for your own experience and the compliment of your writing it on here for all of us to see and read.
Semper fi,
Jim
MORE!!! Don’t stop now!!!! Thank God for Bulldog and Ho. Why does the name Christopher Hill ring a bell?
Famed ambassador in many countries over the years. First class prick.
I was briefly thrown in jail in Paris for identity theft when I stole Hill’s diplomatic passport and some business cards when he was ambassador to Thailand.
HE was roaring with anger mostly because I chose to portray my fake identity as that of the truly effete snob he was…and likely remains.
Semper fi,
Jim
Here is a “sanitized” version of Christopher Hill’s ‘bio’
~~smile
Christopher Hill – Wikipedia
Holey Smoke James! I re-read the previous chapter then this entire chapter twice holding my my breath during your escape from the “Police.” Each chapter lately is even more wild. It is a miracle that you have survived to this point in your life. I can barely wait for each new chapter. My Dad used to tell me that I will learn if I lived long enough after each of my misadventures. He would finish by saying: :”I don’t think you will live that long.” Then, he would rub salt into my wounds each time I came bleeding or broken for help by asking: “what the Hell did you do this time?”
I would never have survived in your world but I am so glad that you did. You tell of an amazing and exciting life. I hope that you never told your wonderful wife what a perilous life you lead.
Thanks John, for the great comment. I brought my wife in on a ton of stuff but not on all of it. Some of it was just too
worry causing or stuff that made me look even dumber than I was. Mary had not background in anthropology or English, much less
the linguistics necessary. But she has and had a most excellent mind and also an orientation that was more about family and
survival instead of sometimes blind patriotism, and even patriotism that wasn’t really that at all.
Semper fi, and thanks for the compliments.
Jim
More twists and turns. Excellent.
Thanks so much Tony, for the great compliment.
Semper fi,
Jim
LT, great chapter as was the last. Your surrounded by CIA people and don’t even know it. Ha Ha. What an interesting way to make a living if you call it that. The mental pressure of always being on alert about people,
surroundings had to be exhausting. How ever if this story is true, you did well.
Thanks JT, the story is true in almost every part and parcel. Too dumb to be made up!!!
But what a learning ride it all was out there and absorbing all those unknown customs and mores was
intensely interesting and every with me through life. Most American’s have no clue about those other cultures out
there or why they don’t act like our own, or even want to covert to being like us at all. They can’t because
they can’t give up the very fabric of what makes them human in their own ways. Thanks for the interesting
comment and your compliment at the end.
Semper fi
Jim
You have had a remarkable journey since entering the marines. The valley, the hospital and “recruitment” into the CIA. Each chapter adds a new twist.
Enjoying the ride!
Thanks ever so much Phil. Yes, it’s been a most interesting ride, and not a truly believable one at that.
Maybe more so many years from now when I’m gone but who the hell knows. Just writing away in order to lay it
all down. Thanks for the compliments and the support as you write on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
I swore off visiting foreign lands after my time in the Army was up . Although my wife and I were thinking about visiting England and western Europe for a couple of weeks next year to visit some of my relatives and see where our fathers fought during WW2 . This chapter has me doubly convinced of my previously held belief that I don’t want to visit anymore foreign lands , Allies or not !
Perspective Charles. It’s all in how you yourself define such things as comfort, adventure and coming to know
more about a world that to this day US citizens know nothing much of. Anthony Bourdain was outstanding in trying
to bridge some of that gap but then decided to mess with the Israeli government and you know the rest. Some of those countries
out there are wonders. Ecuador, Thailand, Norway, and yes Great Britain and France.
Semper fi,
Jim
Funny, I am reminded of some of the 3 Stooges or Laurel & Hardy episodes! Then remember that before Vietnam the US were real infants in Asia. The French and British owned to place! Korea was recently out of Japanese ownership except for the North! We had been in Philippines for decades but really only as a source for Stewards & Maids for the USN. The French & British had fairly sophisticated diplomatic corps because the Asian possessions were significant revenue! US military had operated in the area but had limited cultural knowledge because they alway live inside the wire! Explained alot! You were learning like everyone else. Very Interesting….l
As usual, Colonel Homan, you pass over a lot of broken ground. I was getting trained without it being called
that. I would return from countries for years and write after action reports…only discovering more years later
that my reports became part of the training for newer agents. You are spot on in what you are writing…and it’s fun
to get these knowing you are past Vienna (cold culture but crispy clean) and on into Hungary. Warm culture but rough
around the edges…Buda being rougher than Pest). Thanks for taking the time out of your traveling and whirlwind
vacation.
Semper fi, my great friend,
Jim
Dang, Jim – you pack an awful lot of action into one short chapter!
Seems the Communications Director guy really thinks his toilet deposits really have no odor. Really dislike persons of his ilk, as I’m sure you do also. To steal part of someone’s dinner would be grounds for some physical violence, but I do recognize your restraint.
I think I would be at least changing his moniker to something more fecal.
So now you are “on the run” with Ho. I’d be betting Ho would know a back door to the airport, but you still have to get past the passport check. Going to be interesting!
Getting the two novels, Volume II and III out to the public ate the week alive. That and working
through the printing company publishing the second edition of the first Volume, which had to be
better edited and corrected in a few places. Thanks for waiting with baited breath for the next
chapter. I promise it will be longer than this last one.
Semper fi,
Jim
Another got me on the edge of my seat, you’re very good at what you do LT. Hope there’s no end to this any time soon.
Volume IV of TCL will end soon, as volume V begins. This story is a long way from over as we ease into my ‘missions’ from one country to another and on through the number of times I was fired, cautioned, charged for missing shit, written up for insubordination and worse. Along with all that went the written thanks of presidents, cuff links, visits to Air Force One as well as occasional high status with Headquarters Marine Corps and the Secretary of the Navy. It was an odyssey that has only and apparently finally eased away as I have gotten older. My last visit from ‘the guys’ was now nine years ago. But, they will still do an expect favors, probably well into my afterlife!
Semper fi,
Jim