The Third Personality: A Novel (17)

GUANTANAMO BAY, Cuba - While U.S. Navy petty officer third class Tom Mendelson rode in the back of the camouflaged Marine troop transport truck enroute to the bottom of Guantanamo's John Paul Jones Hill for a little .45-calibre handgun target practice, all he could think about was the letter he'd received from home, from his mother, earlier that morning.

Sadie Goldfarb Mendelson relayed to her son some sickening, heartbreaking news. (Before he'd even opened the envelope, Tom knew that something was amiss. For reasons he didn't understand, he'd developed a kind of sixth sense about certain things.)

...Dearest Tommy,
I don't know how to tell you what I feel I must, except to just do it (you know that's the way I am - you and I are so much alike sometimes, aren't we?)
An old friend of yours, Charley Anders, has been shot and killed in Vietnam. It was by a sniper, and apparently he died instantly. He was only 26, your age, and like you, close to the end of his tour of duty. This terrible war has been so awful!!
I ran into his mother down at the corner Winn-Dixie, and she told me. And right there in front of the frozen TV dinners, we both just started crying - me, because I've so often feared the same thing might happen to you! (I don't know how I'd deal with it if I ever got news like that! Mrs. Anders is so brave!!) I told her that if she and husband ever needed somebody to talk to, to just stop by and visit me and your father, anytime. I meant it.
Other than that (and I know that's a whole lot) - we are well here, and can't wait for your next leave. When is that? In a couple of months, didn't you say? Your father, as always, sends his very best. And Tommy, we're both just so proud of you!!
Always know that we'll be here for you. Always. My next letter will have much happier news, I promise. I'm so sorry.
Love,
Mom

As the truck lumbered and bounced its way into the pistol firing range parking area, Tom let out an audible, deep sigh.

This idiotic, so-called "training" they were doing now… It was all just such a bad joke, which was now only underscored on this particular sunny afternoon by Charley's death.

It was always sunny in "Gitmo" Bay, which was supposed to be one of the "bennies" - benefits - of getting assigned there (although no one, but no one, ever requested Guantanamo on their next-choice-of-duty-station request form: the "dream sheet," as the Navy called it - which itself was never honored by the Navy, anyway - hell, that was another joke..!). The word was, you could safely request any duty station of your choosing and never get sent to Vietnam - just so long as that duty station, no matter how ridiculous it might sound on paper, wasn't located anywhere near the U.S. Pacific rim at the time. But just request San Diego, San Francisco or, say, even Seattle - and, ta-ta, sucker: you were shipped off to Vietnam. That's why Tom always requested each of three-sized tugboats out of Fort Lauderdale's Port Everglades, the only "duty station" the Navy had there. Tom never expected to get his request honored - and predictably, it never was. But he was never ordered to Vietnam, either.

Anyway - as captive members of Guantanamo Bay's so-called "Naval Emergency Ground Defense Force" (NEGDEF, for short), it was Tom's job, along with that of his other "lower-echelon" (which is to say, expendable) enlisted peers, to defend the base in the event it was attacked by Castro's Comunista military forces, who sat in bunkers on the other side of the base fence.

Theoretically, NEGDEF was supposed to stave off a Cuban ground assault just long enough for the dependents (wives and children) to get safely off the base. After that, what the hell.

The only thing was: like Tom, no one in the unit could hit the broad side of a barn when it came to firing their (mostly outdated) weapons, like M-1 rifles. A few of the "lucky" ones were issued some John Wayne-styled air-cooled machine guns, which were (theoretically) to be mounted on tripods and stuck in limited-view bunkers - the kind of bagged-in bunkers, Tom noted grimly, that were always the first to be destroyed by enemy hand grenades in the old World War II movies.

Anyway, as one of Tom's NEGDEF chums from California noted: "We're lovers, not fighters!" Most of the guys had joined the Navy four years earlier (when they were still draft-eligible) not to get shot at. The pre-lottery "Vietnam era" was a lousy time to be a young male. Either you stayed in school, ran off to Canada, were drafted (and got shot), or: you joined the Navy.

Those who were assigned machine guns were not assigned M-1s, happily. They were, however, issued standard military .45s instead, which they were also expected to be able to shoot.

Tom, alas, had been one of those assigned a machine gun.

Once situated on the line with his (John Wayne-styled) camouflaged helmet on, and his weapon in hand, Tom took the proper stance as the Marine instructor, now pacing along behind the firing line with his jaw moving, had told them all to do.

"…And if you do exactly what I tell you to do, you sweet young things - it just might save your lives one of these days," the instructor was sarcastically telling the group, whose members now stood with their legs apart - each with one outstretched hand holding up the other, which of course held the frigging gun.

(…There were so many stupid safeties to have to flip or squeeze in before the .45 would even fire, Tom noted, the effort might even confused a calculus professor, he thought, before…)

(…And then the memories of Charley came flooding back: The hours upon hours spent playing slow-pitch, sandlot baseball, going on canal boating junkets, taking cheap bus rides to the beach, or playing those once-innocent games of "best dyer" …)

"Ladies," the Marine instructor barked. "Take your marks."

There were no females in the group.

(…There was that one time Charley pretended to get hit with that - what was it? An arrow? - in his throat, and he fell face down in the surf, only to quickly jump back up again because [and it was really funny, what with all of Charley's coughing and gagging]; …because he'd taken some salt water up his nose..!)

"…Aim," the Marine - (the "grunt") - grunted…

"Fire."

(Marines were "grunts," Army guys were "doggies," and sailors were "squids." Military comrades had a language all their own.)

Having de-safetied all of the damned safeties, as instructed, Tom squeezed - ever so lightly - the trigger …

(He hated doing this… He hated it!)

Pop! Pop-pop..! The automatic pistol lurched up in Tom's hand each time he fired - and it didn't sound at all like the guns used to sound on TV, back when he was growing up … (This not only wasn't fun; this bordered on being just plain scary…)

"Sailor!" the instructor suddenly screamed into Tom's ear. "You fire one round at a time - one … round!!"

(-Charley was dead! -Charley was dead! -CHARLEY WAS DEAD!!)

Every single one of Tom's shots missed their paper target.

* * * * *

Having long-since completed his turn on the line and waiting now only for his companions to finally finish taking their turns, Tom stretched out on the ground and tried to relax.

But he just couldn't.

He had a gnawing feeling in his gut that he couldn't shake, and he didn't know where it was coming from.

(Maybe he was still feeling torn up inside about Charley. Only this feeling - this was about something different …)

Tom felt an increasing sense of dread.

Years had passed, in fact, since he had one of those strange dreams or visions he used to experience now and again. They all just kind of stopped one day (not that that had bothered him any; they were sometimes pretty unsettling), and all that need he'd felt at the time to try to make some sense of it all just kind of up and disappeared right along with the experiences.

Only now … This feeling had that old power …

Oh … Oh, dear God. Something just wasn't right.

A jeep then hurriedly drove into the area, and a shore police patrolman jumped out of it.

(Tom knew the guy was there for him …)

The Marine instructor saw the vehicle pull in, and ordered a temporary halt to the final round of firings.

"What's up?" he asked the patrolman after he'd walked up to him.

"I'm looking for a �petty officer Mendelson,'" the patrolman said formally.

The instructor turned. "Mendelson!" he called out. "Front and center!"

Tom was already on his feet and jogging over to the jeep.

"I'm Mendelson," Tom said, puffing, when he got there.

"C-O sent me over to pick you up," the patrolman told Tom stiffly. "You're to ride back to the naval station with me now."

Tom quietly climbed into the jeep, and he and the shore patrolman then quickly sped away. Just like that.

The rest of the NEGDEF unit returned to its target practice.

Tom had no choice but to take the (now empty) .45 with him, and stuff it inside its snap-down holster. At least he wasn't being carted away to some sort of base investigation - whatever that might be - or the S-P would have asked him for his gun.

Thank God for small favors.

"Petty officer: I must ask you to remove your holster from your person, take the weapon out, and then remove its clip," the patrolman announced, as they sped along the dirt road. "…Once that's done, place the holster, the weapon and the empty clip in the large empty box between us - and then sit, very still."

Tom gulped, and did as he was ordered.

The Commanding Officer, a hard-looking lieutenant commander named Banning (whose office looked as spit-polished as himself), was introduced to Tom by the patrolman who, upon being formally thanked in turn, saluted, turned sharply on his heels, and left.

The C-O looked distracted, and hadn't returned the salute.

At least there would be no arrests today, apparently.

"…Mendelson … Thomas, isn't it?" he began.

The knot in Tom's stomach remained tightened. "Yes, sir."

"Please, son, sit," the officer said.

Tom sat.

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news to tell you …

"I've been notified by the Florida Highway Patrol that your parents have been killed in an automobile accident…"

A flush went up into Tom's head. He wavered for a moment, and then decided he hadn't heard the commander's words.

"Sir?" Tom asked hollowly.

The plush office suddenly seemed to take on a surrealistic glow. The light from the softly setting afternoon sun appeared to filter softly in between the blinds, and then fragment.

The C-O reached over and placed his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"The accident occurred on I-95, we're told, when a driver coming from the other direction crossed the median strip and hit your parents' car head-on. They apparently died instantly."

"'Instantly?'" Tom whispered, shaken. "How. How could …"

"There were numerous opened empty beer cans piled in the back seat of the other driver's vehicle, the highway patrol report stated," the commander explained softly. "His vehicle was crushed upon impact - as was your parents' car, I'm afraid - and that driver, who also died, is now suspected of having passed out as the result of being intoxicated."

Tom said nothing, and his eyes began to water.

"I'm so sorry," the C-O continued. "This is a tremendous shock for any young man to have to take, I know. We've already cut some emergency leave papers for you, and there is a flight scheduled for the mainland, to the Jacksonville Naval Station in fact, leaving from here at seventeen hundred hours. Once there, they'll drive you to the airport. We've already got you booked on a local commercial flight down to Fort Lauderdale, where I'm told some neighbors of yours will be waiting to pick you up and take you home with them for the evening …

"Mister Mendelson - I'm told you have no other immediate family, is that correct?" the commander then asked after a pause.

"No," Tom answered, his throat now swollen. "No sir."

The older man squeezed Tom's shoulder gently.

"Son, I don't know whether you believe in God or not," he said softly. "I see on your service record that you have no religious preference …

"I would only suggest to you now that … if you seek God's help, seek out His strength and love - He'll be there for you."

Tom looked up dazedly into the older man's face and saw not just sympathy there, but a dark, wounded kind of empathy.

"…My wife, and my daughter; back in the states, only a few years ago," Banning said. "They died in an accident not unlike the one which has now taken your parents from you."

For a brief time, then, neither man said anything.

The officer then stood, and returned to practiced formality.

Tom also stood. Their meeting was obviously over.

"God's speed to you, sailor," the officer said.

"Thank you, sir," Tom said, as he turned and left the office for the naval station barracks.

Amid his confusion, Tom had a vague sense that he had to pack all of his belongings, because he wouldn't be coming back.

The surrealism remained as he left the admin building.

(And to think - he thanked the C-O for telling him that his parents were dead… Dead, like Charley… Dead!)

(Tom's mother, Sadie, and father, Don, were … Gone …)

Once outside, Tom's emotions backed up on him.

He buckled in a mid-walk, and tears swept down his cheeks.

Part of him just wanted to hide, to escape, to be comforted, to start over - to feel safe, just once more.

Just once more.

He then remembered the letter he received only that morning.

"You said always, Mom!" Tom then cried aloud.

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