By What is Sure to Follow Page 6

  ****

  About the same time Luke reached puberty, he found that he enjoyed running. At first he did it on his own after school. It seemed to clear his head and made him feel good. Running had become a sort of meditation for him: while running it seemed that all of his problems solved themselves or faded away. The main problems usually had centered on this girl or that or where was he going to get the money for the weekend. Nonetheless, running had helped. As he did more of it, he had begun to run the long distance course set up for the school’s track team. Sometimes he had passed runners on the bike path and continue on his way.

  The track coach stopped Luke one afternoon as Luke headed to the shower and had introduced himself. It seemed that someone on the track team had told the coach about him.

  “You the guy who runs the cross country course and passes the other runners?”

  “I guess I am,” admitted Luke, still unsure what the coach had in mind.

  “Well, I am the track coach,” he said as he smiled at Luke. “We need good runners. Would you like to tryout for the cross country team?” the coach had offered in a friendly manner.

  “Well I guess so,” answered Luke. He didn’t know why he had said “yes” except it seemed like it would be fun at the time. Luke had qualified for the team easily enough and actually participated in half a dozen meets or so, winning a couple of them, before he lost interest. Running was personal to Luke. So he quit the team and continued to run, picking and choosing his own course as he continued to run several afternoons a week.

  ****

  “How come you can do this shit so easily and no one else can?” asked one of Luke’s fellow recruits during a rest period.

  “Oh, I’ve had to do this stuff for years,” replied Luke. “I started climbing ropes in high school and kept it up in college.”

  “I’ll let you do the rope climbing for me then,” suggested the recruit with a smile.

  “Yeah, right. I just hope I make it through.”

  “Me too,” said the tired recruit next to him. Luke nodded. “This shit is getting old.”

  “Only about three more weeks,” said Luke, trying to sound confident as he spoke.

  “A lot can happen in that time,” said another recruit with a sneer.

  “I try not to think about it,” said Luke as he stood and brushed himself off. Nodding to the man, Luke walked toward the barracks.

  ****

  Boot camp changed Luke’s body composition in every way. He weighed 154 when he joined–with a fair amount of body fat, not out of shape by any means–and now he weighed 172 pounds, now totally muscle.

  Luke thrived on the self-defense lessons and exercises.

  “Every time I throw my opponent, I think about the beating I took in a bar the night I got drafted,” Luke confided to a small group of his team mates one evening after chow as they sat around talking. “It really helps me focus.”

  “Hey man. It may help you, but you should see the look you get in your eyes when you go in the ring,” said another man seated nearby. “It gives me the creeps.”

  “Yeah. Your eyes go real scary,” agreed another. Luke shrugged his shoulders as if saying no big deal, but otherwise let the comment die.

  All Luke knew was that when he focused in that way he always beat his opponent. It seemed silly to Luke, but from that day on everyone in the platoon started calling him “Eyes” instead of Luke.

  Using his technique, Luke won top honors in the platoon. He was so good in hand-to-hand combat, in fact, he was chosen to .represent his platoon in the command wide competition. Luke wasn’t sure he wanted the honor and went to the DI’s office to decline. A brief meeting with the DI straightened out his thinking.

  “You’re the best man in the unit and you owe it to the platoon to enter,” scowled his DI. “Do I make myself clear, Private?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Luke nervously as he stood rigid in front of the DI’s desk. Luke’s eyes focused straight ahead as he listened to his DI, knowing full well that he had to enter the competition. “Well?” boomed his DI.

  Still staring hard at the wall above the DI’s head, and wishing he could disappear into the grain of the wood, Luke swallowed once and then meekly replied, “Yes, Sergeant. I’ll be proud to represent the platoon.” Luke saw the sergeant nod slightly and then noticeably relax. It was as if Luke’s words released a steam valve that prevented his sergeant from exploding. Luke knew he didn’t want to be around if that happened.

  “That will be all Private Sims. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Luke left the office smartly, unsure of what lay ahead, but glad that he survived his “talk” with his DI.

  Strangely Luke found the matches gave him a terrific feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment. With each victory, working his way up to the finals, he gained more and more confidence.

  On the third day of competition, he went in the arena for the Base Championships. By this time his opponent and he both thought they were indestructible. They had beaten everyone they went up against. Most of the “battles” up to this point had lasted five or ten minutes each–this one lasted over forty minutes. It was clear that Luke had the shit beat out of him when it was allover. He had bruises on bruises. His opponent didn’t fare much better; the difference was he won–he was still standing at the end. Luke was not. Luke learned a lesson: there is always someone better, no matter how good you think you are or you are. Luke smiled as he thought about it; he felt good that it had taken another Marine to beat him. It wasn’t the same as the bar incident at all. Luke still felt proud. His platoon admired him and that made all the difference.

  The next day Luke decided to speak with his DI–about being a Recon Marine. Luke felt confident about his request. He went to the door to the sergeant’s office and knocked loudly three times. The door was already open.

  “Private Sims requests permission to speak to the Sergeant,” said Luke as he stood at attention outside the door to Sergeant Davis’s office.

  “Permission granted, Private,” answered the rough sounding career man as he looked up from his desk.

  Luke entered and stood erect in front of the sergeant’s desk and spoke loudly. “Sergeant, the recruiter told me to wait until now to request that I be admitted into Recon Training.” Feeling as though nothing else should be said Luke stood rigid, silently awaiting the sergeant’s reply.

  The stern faced DI softened slightly as he studied Luke. “I see,” he said finally as he clasp his hands in front of him on the desk. Then he was silent again as he stared hard into Luke’s face. “So you had this in mind since day one, did you?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” The reply was immediate.

  “I don’t see any problem with your request, Private Sims,” came the reply. “Furthermore, I will gladly add my recommendation. They are looking for good men. I think you will find a home there. Is that all Marine?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Luke left the room smiling. As the door closed, Sergeant Davis smiled and shook his head. He would have never guessed that Luke wanted to be Recon.

  A week later Basic Training ended and the platoon moved to Oceanside, thirty miles away, for ITR (Infantry Regiment Training). During the five weeks spent in ITR, Luke forgot about his request and spent his time learning how to function within a unit. The time passed quickly.

  The platoon’s duty assignments were posted on the next to last day of ITR training, late in the afternoon, after a full day of combat maneuvers. Excitedly the tired Marines rushed to see what they had drawn, instantly forgetting how tired they were as they enthusiastically compared MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) duty designations. Luke took the single sheet of paper from the stack and studied it quietly. No where on it did it say Recon Training. He felt let down. Then he started asking others what they had; most were assigned duty as regular Marine foot soldiers. Strangely, he noticed a couple of his new friends–an African-
American named Waldo Washington and Johan Schmidt, a farmer’s son from the Midwest–were the only other ones assigned to courses in Advance Survival Training, Jungle Training, Paratrooper School and so on. Unsure of what it meant, Luke slumped visibly, feeling once again tired from the day’s events, as he walked to the DI’s office a short distance away, orders in hand. He knocked hard three times and waited.

  “Enter,” came the reply from the other side of the door. Luke quickly opened the door, approached the desk and stood at rigid attention.

  “Sergeant! Private Sims requests permission to speak!”

  “What’s on your mind, Private?”

  “I don’t understand my orders,” Luke said, sounding confused.

  The sergeant raised his hand toward Luke, reaching for the paper. “Let me see that,” said the sergeant. Luke handed his orders across the plain wooden desk and remained standing. The sergeant glanced at the orders and then looked up at Luke with a blank expression. “What don’t you understand, Private?” The sergeant knew what was bothering him, but wanted to hear the way Sims said it.

  “Sergeant, I put in for Recon training. My orders don’t say Recon anywhere.” Luke felt his stomach churning as he spoke.

  “I see,” replied the sergeant as he paused for effect. “Wouldn’t you guess that a Recon has to have survival skills and paratrooper training and the other things you see listed here.” He waved the paper Luke had handed him in the air.

  “Well...I imagine so, Sergeant.”

  “Does that answer your question, Private?” The sergeant finally allowed himself to smile slightly.

  Luke glanced at him. Then he smiled. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  “If that’s all, Private, you’re dismissed...and good luck.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant!” Luke rushed from the office and almost knocked over Waldo and Schmidt who were waiting outside the door.

  “Well? What’s goin’ on, bro?” asked Waldo as the three walked outside. Concern was etched on his thin, black face.

  “We’re going to be Recon Marines, you guys.”

  “No shit? Great,” replied Schmidt. “Wait ’til I write home about this. My dad will be so proud.”

  “I’m not sure exactly what that means, bro. Is that good or bad?” Waldo stared hard into Luke’s face, awaiting an answer. His face lost all expression.

  “Hell man, it’s the elite of the Marine Corps. Nobody fucks with Recon,” Luke said in a rush of words. Luke saw big smiles form on his friends faces.

  “All right!” Waldo said as his smile grew. Immediately he stuck his hand out and started bumping knuckles with his two friends, Luke first. Schmidt was still slow at the routine, but with help finally completed it as Luke watched.

  “You got that right, bro,” Luke said smiling. “Nobody will fuck with us now!” he added for emphasis. His friends smiled. Waldo made a fake jab at him and then smiled broadly.

  “Hey. You looking for trouble? You know you’re fuckin’ with? A Recon!”

  “Oh, so sorry. I didn’t realize,” said Waldo in a high-pitched woman’s falsetto voice. “Please forgive me.” All of Waldo’s perfect, white teeth appeared as he smiled at Luke.

  “You are forgiven. ASSHOLE!”

  “Oh thank you, thank you.” Waldo was now laughing. Luke joined in.

  “Let’s go to get cleaned up for chow you Recons. I’m hungry,” said Johan. With a laugh they headed off.

  Luke’s wish had been granted; he was on his way to Advanced Infantry Training Battalion (AITB) of the School of Infantry (West), Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton to begin his training as a Recon Marine.

  ****

  For the next few months the three men moved from one training command to another, receiving the specialized training each one offered. They learned how to execute Force Recon’s primary mission: to work as independent small teams performing reconnaissance in hostile territory without being seen. When they started they had all the basic combat skills any Marine had, and before the training was over, they were experts at advanced weapons and demolition, radio communication, mountaineering, scuba diving, parachuting, and for Luke, speaking Vietnamese. And most importantly, they all learned how to survive in enemy held territory. They were the most highly trained personnel the Marines had–they were the elite. They were one of a very small group that had earned the name Force Recon Marine!

  The men who completed the advanced training with Luke were an impressive group. Less than one third of those who began training with Luke graduated with him, Johan and Waldo. Intelligent and clean cut, they were mostly from places in the midwest. Most of them, including Luke, were not the big muscle, super brawny type; they were generally of average height and build, and if anything tended to be thin. Luke was bigger than average.

  ****

  “Hey, Johan, “ said Luke one day. “You almost finished?”

  “Yeah, just about. Why?” replied Johan Schmidt as he finished mopping the barrack’s floor. It was the end of their second week at Camp Pendleton. Johan had just turned eighteen a week earlier and in many ways the kid in him showed through. Luke liked Johan. He was from a small town in Kansas.

  Luke smiled. “Then move your ass. Let’s go outside.” Often lately they spent their slack time talking together. Luke liked Johan’s easygoing attitude and clean-cut morals.

  “Well, I told you it would get easier, Luke,” said Johan with a slight smile as they slowly eased themselves to the ground in the shade of their barracks. Luke was still reeling from the twenty-mile forced hike they had taken earlier in the afternoon. His feet hurt, but he didn’t feel them because his lower back commanded his attention. The forty-odd pound pack he had carried had strained most of the muscles found there.

  Luke looked at Johan a long moment before he replied, wondering if Johan’s body hurt at all. Then he spoke. “You consider this easier?”

  “Sure. The second time you do something like this it gets easier. Don’t you feel your muscles aren’t as tired?” Johan’s friendly smile told Luke that he was serious. “You don’t look as bad as you did last time. Last Lime I thought you might have to go to the infirmary.” It caused Luke to think.

  “Yeah, after the first time, I thought I’d die. This time I can identify what parts hurt. So I guess I’m doing better.” Luke smiled as he spoke.

  “Just in case you’re curious,” Johan said as his smiled widened, “this time my feet feel like they’re hamburger. I’m afraid to take my boots off and look at them. Last time I couldn’t feel them at all.” Luke smiled at him. It was good to know he wasn’t alone in his pain.

  Standing nearby, Waldo said, “Did I hear someone say hamburgers?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you nibble on Johan’s toes? He thinks they’re hamburger. Probably well done too. He doesn’t think he needs them anymore.”

  “Shit and I thought you meant real food. I could handle that, bro.” Waldo looked sad for their benefit and then straightened up.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Waldo,” said Johan as he finished replacing his right boot, but looser this time. Blood flowed to his feet again. He felt them throbbing. Soon he knew, the pain would subside. Then he turned to Luke and said, “Gettin’ better, it just keeps gettin’ better.”

  “What’s gettin’ better?” Waldo asked.

  “The Corps. We’re becoming Recon Marines. Everyday a little more. Don’t ya feel it? Why last night,” he said with a rush of excitement, “I dreamed about us goin’ to Nam and kicking ass. Boy did we do good!” Johan first turned to his right and looked Luke in the face, as though for emphasis, and then faced Waldo. “We are going to be the best Recon the Corps has ever seen. You wait and see.” Hidden beneath the words, Luke thought it was as if Johan was saying isn’t this swell. Luke shook his head in amazement.

  Luke liked the naivete of Johan. He studied Johan closely as Johan talked. Sitting in the shade with a smile spread across his tan face, he looked smaller than his 6'1", 145 pounds, Luke decided. Th
en he wondered what the smile had to do with judging Johan’s size. Luke smiled to himself as he let the thought pass, again turning his attention back to Johan. For Johan everything was clean and beautiful. Luke found this enthusiasm infectious.

  That’s what Luke liked about Johan. He always had a good word to share, no matter what the situation. If the DI was rough, he’d tell everyone it wasn’t nearly as bad as what the Viet Cong would do– then he would smile. And usually everyone laughed with him.

  Johan continually sought out Luke during slack time. Luke was a good listener and Johan was anxious to remember the life he had left behind, so he told Luke his stories.

  “My family immigrated from Germany at the turn of the century.” The cool shade seemed to coax the words from him. “We farm eighteen hundred acres in Kansas,” he told Luke. “It’s been our farm for three generations, four soon.” He looked homesick as he spoke, Luke noticed, but there was pride in his voice. Johan was the youngest of four children, one of which was an older brother, Luke remembered Johan telling him before.

  “The largest town I had ever been in before I joined the service was Atwood, Kansas,” he said excitedly as he continued. “Its population is not even 2,000. Small, huh?”

  “That’s pretty small all right,” agreed Luke.

  “I didn’t even go there often.”

  “How often?” asked Luke.

  “It was sometimes two months between trips going to the “big city,” as we call it. Most of the time my family just makes monthly trips to our small town, Beardsley. Population 463, last I heard. I think that’s counting the pigs too.”

  Speaking faster, he added, “We always go on Saturday–goin’ to the store to pick up supplies first. It’s quite a trip. Why one way it’s almost twenty-two miles,” he said to Luke as though it was a great distance. Luke waited for him to whistle or let out a sigh of air over the last fact. And sure enough, he did. After a moment’s pause, Johan continued slowly, “It’ll take the better part of a whole day, including shopping of course.”