Betrayed by Soldiers

By Dennis King

This novel is a suspenseful, Afghanistan wartime adventure, exposing webs of deceit woven into events overcome by personal triumph. Readers are introduced to the best our armed services offer, and a glimpse of the worst. You’ll read of dishonest service members and unconstitutional acts of our government from the lowest to highest of levels. Being semi-factual, events and character dialogues may lure you deeper, as you remember, or discover, how wisps of news events interlock. This novel was written for patriots, past or present, serving in the Army, Air Force, Navy, or Marine Corps, plus any reader interested in detective or espionage stories.
The abilities, grit, and intellectual capabilities of two Recon Marines and a female Army Corporal are pitted against a vast, interwoven network of traitorous Americans, corrupt allies, and foreign spies. Their destinies are thrown together during the clash of a terrorist ambush. At the explosive firefight start, two soldiers are saved and one killed. Of the two saved, one was a dirt-bag and one became a heroine. Later, a cowardly Army Sergeant First Class detonates a terrorist’s suicide vest. The Marine Lieutenant is injured so severely he becomes a double amputee. Even with both feet blown off, the officer struggles through to make a valiant come back.
The lead female is portrayed as intelligent, strong, yet vulnerable, spunky, and lucky. Can the good guys stop the murdering of servicemen and women? Can they break up networks selling black market explosives and distributing counterfeit bills? Tracking spies and traitors, our heroes not only survive firefights but also battle inter-agency turf struggles between the Department of Justice, NSA, and NATO.
The acts of selling high-end explosives and ammunition to the enemy as portrayed in this fictional work are indeed real, everyday occurrences in Afghanistan. There is an ongoing black market activity that continues to cause wasted, wrongful deaths, and injuries to American military personnel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis King
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005942250

Dennis King

Hello friends, if you are looking to download my free or low-cost selections of books and essays, you've reached the right place. All you have to do is scroll down a couple of pages to peruse those offerings.What is your favorite reading genre? If you like adventures or stories with military intrigue, try “Betrayed by Soldiers” and follow that up with “Deep Cover Shakedown.” If you like poetry, you can read 20,000 words of original, rhythmical composition in “Romantic Poetry”? By poking around in the nooks and crannies of the offerings listed you will find illustrated children's stories, Sci-Fi, and many short essays that have proved useful in informal Bible Studies or self-help for the troubled souls suffering from worry or anxieties.For those of you that wish to know a little about me, after growing up in the small town of Mukwonago, Wisconsin, I served for twenty years in the military. During that time, I served two volunteer tours in classified combat situations and flew more than 100 combat missions manning a .50 machine gun from the side-door of a Marine helicopter at the height of the war. After being promoted to Staff Sergeant (E-6), I requested Officer Candidate School. As a Signal Officer, I served in Field Artillery, Signal Battalions, and Recruiting Command. My last assignment was at the Pentagon with the Army Research & Development Agency.For the avid card players out there, I invented and offer TOSS Playing Cards, comprised of an eight-suited deck that plays every card game you know with more excitement and challenges. The deck can be reviewed at Toss.iWARP.com.Retired, I now serve as a Red Cross Disaster Services team member and Spiritual Care. Please, feel free to email any comments, favorable or not. Every author, like to hear from the fans or critics. You can reach me directly at [e-mail].

Book preview

Betrayed By Soldiers

ISBN 9781005942250

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2020 Dennis D. King

This novel is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction. Characters, events, and locations are used fictitiously. Any appearance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or fictionalized truths gathered from public information. Trademarked products are owned by their respective corporations and have been mentioned without permission or endorsement. Depictions of activities concerning any living persons, NATO and the Department of Justice-Overseas represented in this novel are entirely shaped through dramatic license and literary liberties. To my knowledge, the DoJ has no Overseas Unit designated as DoJ-O.

Background Notes

This novel is based on experiences within the United States Marine Corps, Army, plus contacts within the Navy and Air Force. Characters and events are fabricated, though some relate directly to authenticated facts of the Afghanistan war era. The brief accounts of treasonous Americans reflected within this story are based on their convictions, the evidence presented at trials or publicly reported information.

Every American should honor all servicemen and women, whether you agree or do not agree with the political decisions that keep them on the front lines, risking their very life and limbs.

God help us. It is the everyday heroic actions of these men and women that allow us the many freedoms most citizens take for granted.

As the author, I hope you, the reader, question the constitutionality of actions concerning the NSA and or other government entities.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One, Too Tall and Too Rich

Chapter Two, ROTC

Chapter Three, Butter Bar

Chapter Four, Ring Knockers

Chapter Five, Walter Reed

Chapter Six, Show Me The Money

Chapter Seven, Old Acquaintances

Chapter Eight, Flashing Back In Time

Chapter Nine, Firefight Heroes

Chapter Ten, Counter Attack

Chapter Eleven, Two Feet Short

Chapter Twelve, Tripping Out

Chapter Thirteen, Bagram Airbase

Chapter, Fourteen, Aerovac

Chapter Fifteen, DuLay's History

Chapter Sixteen, Jail Time

Chapter Seventeen Freedom

Chapter Eighteen, K-Town

Chapter Nineteen, French Date

Chapter Twenty, Impostor Trouble

Chapter Twenty-One, Death Night

Chapter Twenty-Two, Two For The Team

Chapter Twenty-Three, NATO Kabul HQ

Epilogue

Other Links

Novels by This Author

Children's Stories

Free Christian Essays

Author's Notes

Toss Christian Playing Cards

PROLOGUE

My name is Robert Nathan Steele, with the ‘e’ on the end silent. My military service rank is Captain, O-3, soon to be kicked out of the Crotch. In case you are not familiar with the word Crotch, as applied here, it is an endearing nickname for the United States Marine Corps adopted by those who serve within.

My mind had just wandered off into never-never land. I didn’t snap back into focus until the last few words about me were spoken. Then I felt the weight of this prestigious award and its blue and white ribbon slipping over my head to rest on my chest. Obviously, I had zoned out and utterly oblivious sitting there in my wheelchair.

How could I have missed hearing the ceremonial reading for my Navy Cross, the second-highest award a Marine can receive? As the presenter advanced to the next man in the line, I looked down in my lap and lifted the empty blue box to uncurl the program’s handout, and reviewed the words unheard.

The Citation

The President of the United States takes enormous pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Robert Nathan Steele, First Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, for extraordinary heroism serving Headquarters Company, First Marine Expeditionary Force. In August 2010, as a Ground Intelligence Officer on a classified, long-range reconnaissance patrol, Lieutenant Steele observed a US Army vehicle as it was blasted over by a remotely detonated, improvised explosive. Without hesitation, he left a secure, mountainside observation post bordering Korangal Valley, Afghanistan. He immediately traversed the rocky, exposed ground towards the carnage. At the blast site, he and his Sergeant fell under heavy small arms fire. Wounded several times, disregarding his individual safety, and exposing himself repeatedly to harsh and continuous automatic weapons fire, he, on repetitive trips, pulled three soldiers from the wreckage and carried them to a more secure area.

Then, at extreme personal risk, with unfamiliar captured weaponry, engaged two enemy positions with his accurate, superior firepower. With reckless disregard for his safety, he charged and overran the enemy’s fortified stronghold. By his conspicuous display of gallantry, decisive leadership, untrammeled courage, and utmost devotion to duty, Lieutenant Steele reflects great credit upon himself and the traditions of the United States States Naval Service and Marine Corps.

For the President,

Raymond Marcus, Secretary of the Navy

~{ }~

Unknown to anyone attending that morning’s ceremony, almost seven-thousand miles away, a tall, blonde-haired European Slavic male and the American US Army Sergeant were sharing an evening supper with a Taliban financier in an upscale restaurant. During their delicious meal of tender Australian beef, New England lobsters, and bottles of overpriced wine, they negotiated a final price for the next shipment of explosives to be stolen from the military munition stockpiles.

CHAPTER ONE, TOO TALL AND TOO RICH

All the trouble for Lieutenant Steele and Sergeant Kelly began unexpectedly on the heights of a mountainside overlooking the Korangal Valley. If there was a singular battleground in Afghanistan that deserved to be named The Valley of Death, that combat zone was definitely the leading candidate. This heavily contested piece of real estate was on the Afghan side of the Pakistani frontier. Over several years, both men and women troops of the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, and NATO forces constantly battled Taliban terrorists to a virtual standstill. Much like the Vietnam war, they made ineffective sweeps through towns and villages. Physical locations, like hillsides for mountain ridges, for artillery batteries, or observation posts, were fought for, seized, fortified, and held. Only to be abandoned later, owing to the ebb and flow of our government’s lack of political will to win the war for keeps. Even better yet, just ‘get the hell out of Dodge’ and stay out.

What a waste of young American lives. The gruesome number of casualties on both sides was horrific. Early in the fall of 2005, a Seal team was ambushed and three squad members massacred. Subsequently, a Chinook rescue helicopter was shot down, thus killing an additional 16 troops, eight of which were also Navy Seals.

Prior to 2010, over fifty Americans were killed, and we awarded four heroic servicemen the Medal of Honor. After significant losses, all US operations ended with the withdrawal from the basin. The very next day, the Taliban overtook the city and the surrounding pine tree forests.

All this and more troubled the mind of Marine Lieutenant Steele as he convalesced in Walter Reed Hospital. Steele’s personal contribution to this inanely orchestrated war was not his life. No, what he gave up was both feet just below the ankles. However, as an eternal optimist, and one that never played the Victim Card for pity, pathos, or condolences, he considered his double amputation a blessing.

Reflecting several months back in time, the maimed Lieutenant mentally revisited the flashes of activities that had deposited him on that godforsaken, unnamed Afghan Mountain ridge. There, as told to Steele later, he and Marine Sergeant Cassius Kelly met and saved the life of Army Corporal Isabella DuLay in a major firefight.

Due to the mandatory high doses of the doctor prescribed, pain-reducing, mind-distorting drugs, he couldn’t remember the exact sequence of the events that preceded the explosion of the suicide vest that severed his feet. He did have an inkling that somehow it was the deliberate fault of an Army Sergeant he had just saved at considerable peril to his own life. At least that is what his Navy Cross award seemed to infer. His diminished abilities of recall and the physiological effects of immense memory gaps scared him more than the other challenges at hand. So his mind replayed the chronological succession of past incidents, as best he could.

Steele, who had been convalescing for months, today was feeling relatively fit and sitting up in his adjustable hospital bed, lost in thought. Remembering and reminiscing about his life now and before the Marine Corps was challenging when many of your 'memories' were difficult to isolate from stories other people told you about your years of service. Let alone the flashback gaps where he knew he should know or remember something but could not, no matter how hard he concentrated. When the voids reappeared, his mind had to reset by going back to a known point and moving forward.

Addressing a small group of other wounded troops in one of their mandatory therapy sessions, he spoke. It has been said that you can’t be too rich. Well, respectfully, I must disagree. At the moment, I have just received, in several lump sums, more wealth than I had ever dreamed of accumulating. I don’t know what to do with it all. I’m also told there is still more insurance money coming my way as my father’s career for 36 years was selling whole and term-life policies. Seems he certainly had me covered for all contingencies.

Also, now I’m too tall. Does that sound strange? Too tall and too rich are at the very top of my newest personal triumphs. Let me confuse the issue more by saying, Three months ago I was probably the shortest living Marine Corps First Lieutenant awarded the Navy Cross. Head to toe, my height measured out at slightly less than four feet four inches because of the amputations.

To better understand my situation’s uniqueness, please allow me to think back and vocalize the details I can summon to the forefront of my memories. Until the end of my high school freshman year, all I craved to be was a Marine. You know ‘The Few, The Proud, The United States Marine Corps.’ That was my biggest single dream.

But the cards were stacked against me. Because of a mysterious birth defect, I was consistently much shorter than my contemporaries.

Yeah, my mother and father's heights were perfectly normal, she being five and a half and dad a smidgin taller. But not me, because from the day of my birth, a couple of my genes were defective. At every birthday, growing up, my body was mostly average above the knees. But below them, my tibias and fibulas were always a few inches subpar. They didn’t grow much at all. My super short legs sort of gave me a great ape or monkey look, minus the broad shoulders. Even as early as middle school, I read everything I could find in Mom’s Reader's Digests or the medical and pharmaceutical advances that focused on my condition, which were scattered around the many doctor's offices we had to visit. The only thing I really learned was, statistically; tall people made more money and had happier lives. Go figure, I could’ve guessed that!

Thank God at least my legs were uniformly irregular. I acknowledge that 'uniformly irregular' is a perfect contradiction of terms, an oxymoron. But could you describe my condition any better? As you can imagine, growing up far shorter than my contemporaries, the playground harassment was terrible. Be that as bad as it was, I hate to consider what additional teasing and torment I would have endured if one leg had been a few inches longer than the other.

Even before high school, I daydreamed of being Sergeant Rock. I know you might stop to tell me that the comic book character was an army soldier. You are absolutely correct. But back then, I never had the cash to buy any of those expensive, highly detailed action figures from Hasbro. I just had a beat-up set of two-inches tall plastic soldiers. My guys were all green, not tan in the least, so I naturally thought they were Marines.

Their only actions were when I maneuvered them around the turf in my backyard or dispersed a squad to kingdom-come with a contraband cherry-bomb or the more explosive M-80s. Was GI Joe or Sergeant Rock from the Army and not a tried-and-true leatherneck? Who knew? Not Me! At any rate, I desired to become a genuine, tough as nails, lean, green, fighting Marine.

CHAPTER TWO, ROTC

One of Lieutenant Steele’s other ward mates was an inquisitive airman who asked, Were you a Navy Academy grad or an enlisted Marine before turning into an officer?

Since their cable TV was on the fritz again, Steele replied by telling them the full version with expectations that these newbies might enjoy the interesting details.

Good question. During the first few days of high school, the hazing and kidding about my diminutive size never seemed to stop. Plus, there was no Marine Corps Reserve Officer Training Course. The Army, however, offered a High School program. So I applied on a Monday but ran into a struggle to get them to let me sign up. They told me I was too short. They said, ‘maybe I should reapply a little later down the road.’ So I ambled in, Tuesday, clumped in on Wednesday, and pushed back again on Thursday seeking acceptance. On my successful fifth attempt, a sympathetic TAC Officer stated, I could try out, but if I couldn’t ‘make the grade’ in the initial sessions, he would personally kick my short little butt out and put it on my permanent record. He was probably serious, but hey, as a first-week freshman, I wasn’t overly positive about much of anything.

However, hack it, I did. No one, absolutely nobody, could beat me in subjects like Leadership Traits, Tactics, and Map Reading. Memorizing weapon nomenclature, operating characteristics, and all the other dry, tiresome lessons which seemed to force you to fall asleep were always a snap for me.

To counteract my 5-foot stature, I maxed situps, pushups, and pullups. Fast and nimble on my feet, the escape and evasion exercises were a piece of cake. Truth be told, being small, I could hide almost anywhere. Some of the obstacle course events, like the double tire run, low hurdles, low beams, and low crawl, weren’t much of a challenge. You’ll notice in most of my successes the key distinguishing characteristic is L-O-W!

Same as everybody else. I was shaky at crossing the tightrope obstacles. So what! Very few made it across on the first try, and by the second day’s training, I was one of the quickest. The 8-foot barrier obstacle was a real problem for me. Nevertheless, since ‘collaboration and team unity’ were also 'go' or 'no-go' qualifiers, the football players enjoyed tossing my lightweight body up so I could reach the top. Yea, teamwork! Once I was at the peak of the narrow wall, I could reach down and lend them a hand. Jumping down the entire eight feet was super fun. Geronimo!

Seeing how easy it was getting into the Army Officer Candidate program was, I straightaway outgrew my dream of becoming Sergeant Rock. Then my sights were set on achieving the rank of Captain, as an officer in the United States Army or Marine Corps. To make that vision real, I needed a four-year degree and to find a college that offered an active ROTC, Reserve Officer Training Class curriculum.

After doing some Google checking of USMC height requirements, I realized the need to grow taller, but what the heck, I still had a few years to do it. More importantly, I had to knuckle down with my high school classes so I could earn a scholarship. It seemed I was born with a knack for remembering what I heard or read. Yet, up to that point, I never cared enough about grades. That had to change! Take my geography class, for example. If you turned in all your after school assignments and earned a 100 on the weekly test, you got an A-plus. Or, like myself, if you never bothered to turn in any homework, but aced the quiz, you received a C minus. With my new goal of going to college, it was time for me to knuckle-down and change my scholastic attitude.

Working hard, I lettered as a varsity wrestler and made the track squad and broke the district’s pole vaulting record. With my abbreviated lower limbs, I was decidedly top-heavy, but once I learned how to use the flexibility of the fiberglass shaft, I would launch up into the air just like Rocket Man! As it ended up, with all this upper-body exercise, my chest, arms, and shoulder muscles expanded disproportionately. Waist upward, I looked impressive. I even had ‘The Look!’ Wavy brown hair, steely blue eyes, a straight nose, and peppery beard stubble over a strong-looking cleft chin. Still, with my wide rib cage and short baboon legs, life was often humiliating. But life scrabbles on!

The good news was by lettering in those sports, and winning my weight class three times at our state’s secondary school Wrestling Championships, I gained a moderate scholarship to LSU, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge. Go, go, go purple and gold! There, the college level Navy ROTC program helped me move towards my goal of becoming a Marine Officer. However, where lots of kids grow several inches during high school, not me! From four feet, seven to four-nine was all I could pull off.

Stranger than strange, to me anyway, I had to enter the Navy midshipman to become a Marine Officer? Go figure! Who knew the Jarheads were a component of the Department of the Navy since 1834? My military action comic books never informed me of that fact.

Looking back, the Army Jr. High School ROTC trials were less than a challenge. The Navy/USMC college ROTC course was where I met my real nemesis. That adversary was the killer-diller Team-Log-Run, particularly when they stuck me at the tail-end of the timber.

Surprisingly, two more hospitalized troops decided to sit in as Steele continued his story.

For those of you not familiar with the ROTC version of the mile-long log run, please allow me to describe it. A multi-person team starts and ends this challenge by running with a fairly heavy, sweat-polished timber for a mile. Failure, individually or collectively, to hold any individual's portion of the log over the entire run resulted in event disqualification for the team. To graduate, each person had to pass every individual test. Switching shoulders was allowed, but everyone's hands had to be in contact with the beam at all times. In other words, you could shift the dang telephone pole around, but we all had to be holding the pole, or at least touching it, at all times during the entire course. Teamwork, in this particular exercise, was a mandatory requirement. Each pairing of the running log haulers had to line up single file. The class instructor loved to pair me up with the tallest candidates. Surely, you can you readily envision my log run problems?

When the wood was on the shoulders of the other taller classmates, I constantly had to lift up my arms just to be palming the log. Often I lost a stride and my fingertips came off. Bingo! Disqualified again! Once, the beefy guys told me just to ride the log all the way. I tried but when the tall guys switched shoulders on the run—well, bet you can guess what happened? Boom, off I fell.

Eventually, the TAC Officer teamed up all the smallest runts of the litter. He named us the 'Short-straw squad.' With me on the end and the tiniest girl next up the log, we ultimately succeeded during a night run. Of our log hauling team, I was still the shortest. But passing the test just once solved my problem. I had finally passed every qualification. Hallelujah!

Not to be bragging, but after high school, college was a breeze for me. Well, the first two years anyway. With no girlfriends to speak of and only a few social activities, I had plenty of time for studying and gathering extra brownie points for projects like grading papers for professors.

I pushed hard for the necessary 'Height-Waiver' to enter the OCS program. So in my third year of college, the Department of the Navy doggedly sent me off to the United States Marine Corps Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia.

CHAPTER THREE, BUTTER BAR

Yes, during my initial three years at LSU, I picked up my final few inches. Yea! Short, but I made it work. With a waiver, I got by the minimum height requirement for Leatherneck boots and could proceed to Officer Candidate School even though I weighed barely a hundred and thirty soaking wet.

First Lieutenant Steele's hospital entourage grew by one more when an off duty intern stopped by and leaned against a tall, monitor, rack.

Some call OCS the ‘Butter Bar’ school. In the Marine Corps, ‘Butter Bar’ is military slang referring to any officer wearing the brand new lieutenant’s gold bar insignia that’s shaped like a stick of butter. The term is often used condescendingly towards a boot Lieutenant who might think he knows more than his Senior Non-Commissioned Officers.

One of the navy guys chirped in. Damn straight! Ain't nothing dumber than a new butter bar that thinks he is hot shit. That grew a chorus of 'hell yeah!' and 'you got that right!'

Steele continued. They frequently suggest that most boot 2nd Lieutenants, even with a map and compass, couldn’t lead a marching formation out the Post Gate. Yet, OCS was where we first learned to be Marine Grunts while experiencing most of the unpleasant elements that all the enlisted men and women had to endure in boot camp. May I say, it was an unusual learning practice compared to College.

Damn straight, boot camp was a bitch! came another catcall from the audience. Then somebody else added, A bunch of crap was what it was!

You’ll appreciate, Steele joked, That they taught us that the most revered leaders of men are Marine Corps Officers. But as most of you realize, having served in the military yourselves, ‘esteemed leadership traits’ does not necessarily include Butter Bars of any branch of service?

Being the smallest in my class, I had been a target for the OCS Tactical Officers from day one. There it was, sort of like enlisted boot camp. Before you step off the bus, the TACs all screamed and yelled just to try to psych you out.

March, and more marching. Get down! Wallow in the dust pit! Wash your buddy off with the dirt! Rub your face in the muck, dirtbags! Eat the brown ground, scumbags! Yes! I said, eat dirt, you know what that means, girly girls, swallow some damn dirt! It won’t kill you, scumbags. Get back in the hole, you low-life, wannabe pussy maggots. What are you grinning for, Steele? I said pussy maggots, not magnets! Dive down! Pump out ten pushups. Shitbag! You ain’t trying. Bang out twenty more! Faster! All the way up, don’t go lazy on me on our first date! Do you think that’s funny, Steele? You little short-shit, you’ve just been promoted. Now you’re the Company Commander’s personal mini House Mouse. Ain’t that Sweet? Don’t eyeball me, you puke! You hot for my buns or something? Give me twenty more! Everybody! Everybody get your asses up. Now down! Stand Tall! Relax a minute. Now, get your swinging dicks down on the ground and hump it good. Do it right, Snerdly! You look like you're trying to sneak into a caterpillar’s pussy.

A female Petty Officer Second Class, E-5, passing by, stopped in her tracks. What? You have to be exaggerating! They never did that to us at Great Lakes. Are you lying?

Before Steele could respond, a Lance Corporal, waving the stub of what used to be his left hand, shouted, Hoo-Rah! The Steelman ain’t lying, and you ain’t a Marine.

First Lieutenant Steele continued. Okay gang, keep it down. We all serve in our own ways. You guys want me to resume my characterization of OCS, or not? What I could relate next is a bit over the line of a PG rating.

The same disbelieving female sat down on the edge of a bunk and sputtered, Go on! I got to hear this now.

Okay, you asked for it. Assuredly, the Drill Sergeant was not about to let up even though our cycle was co-ed: 'Ladies! What are you girls doing humping the sludge? I said, 'swinging dicks' get down. You got a swingy wee-wee sister Sally? How about you, sister Mary? No? Well, that’s what I thought, but hadn’t checked for sure. I gall-dang better not catch you with one. Matter of fact, none of you better play with any wee-wees while you’re here in my platoon! None of you turd-face mothers better be caught playing with your own or your bunkies’ junk. If we catch you, both of you get to march around in your skivvies with your little pee shooters in your hand. We don’t care if you’re a man or woman or some piece of crap in between. All of you are treated equally. Equally puked on and equally punished! Won’t that be something to write to your mom-ma about?

If you’ve seen any movie on the theme of boot camp, you are aware of at least half the crap that goes down? But have you ever heard of the term ‘House Mouse’? That was me, Candidate Mouse. Every time any TAC yelled ‘House Mouse’ or ‘Candidate Mouse’, I had to drop what I was doing and do whatever they told me to do. I ran errands backward and forward to the huts. I cleaned their offices and washed their windows. I scrubbed and buffed their decks. When we were back in quarters, there was still no respite. While everybody else was squaring away their own gear for a ‘junk on the bunk’ inspection or just everyday undertakings, I would hear, 'Mouse! Front and Center!' Then I would have to run off and do their bidding. Without a doubt, I still had to fly back and put my crap in order. No slack for me. None at all.

Once I was sent to the Company Commanders's office. There, after I did my normal janitorial routines, the First Sergeant told me to polish the Captain’s parade sword. Talk about nervous. I carefully pulled the saber and scabbard down off his wall, being extra careful not to knock off any of his many awards or pictures. From a storage hatch,—never refer to it as a closet door,—I got out the old striped can of Brasso and a fuzzy yellow polishing cloth.

Then I flew outside and sat down at the three-seat bench where I often worked to shine up their parade boots like mirrors.

I started to withdraw the sword from its scabbard. That’s where things first veered askew. Try as I might, the blade was wedged tight. No, not even Sir Lancelot could have plucked it out. I tugged and yanked. No luck. Then I pulled and jerked again. Nary a budge.

I believed this could be a trick or some gimmicky Honor Code set-up to get me kicked out. Was the damn thing glued with superglue, epoxy, or whatever? If so, what were my choices, and what were the consequences? Do I admit to being defeated? Do I just put it back on the wall and disobey a direct order? Short of dropping dead on the spot from a heart attack, I had only one other choice. Did I have to fess up and concede failure? How would something like that look on my record? No, I had to face the music and take whatever punishment was dished out.

Sword in hand, I returned inside the office, Sir, Private Mouse. Permission to speak?

Speak Mouse!

Sir, Private Mouse can not disengage the blade from the scabbard, Sir. It seems glued solid, Sir?

Then, holding it entirely horizontal, I nervously and strenuously increased my grip on the sword’s sheath and yanked harder on the leather-wrapped brass hilt. I tugged with all my might until my face turned red, then blue because I hadn’t been breathing!

Jumping to his feet, the Captain howled! "Mouse, have you screwed up my sword?"

Sir, no Sir, I’ve never even separated it from your scabbard. The sword is just jammed tight in there.

With that said, in my nervous annoyance, I wanted to show him how completely stuck the saber was. Unthinking, I tipped the heavy hilt straight down and gave it one vicious shake.

Oh! My! God! The sword began to zing out of the scabbard towards the hardwood deck. I’ll never forget the sound of sliding steel on steel. Visions of my impending Death-by-TAC-Officer flashed across my paralyzed brain. Honestly, I can’t say, my youthful life passed before me. I was too busy clamping my ass shut, trying not to mess my pants. Thank God I didn't! If you get my drift?

Seemingly, in extra slow motion, but quicker than superman, my hands did an instant 180-degree turn and the saber's heavy hilt swooped back safely into its protective sheath. Wide-eyed, I looked at the TAC in absolute fear. In retrospect, in my nervousness, my grip on the scabbard had been way too hard. Squeezing the case had kept the sword from being withdrawn.

House mouse!—Do you have a death wish? Do you want to die right here and now?

Sir, no Sir, Candidate Mouse does not desire to perish now!

Give me my damn saber and get your candy ass back to the barracks before I change my mind and just kick your sorry ass out of the Corps.

So, with a brisk ‘By-Your-Leave, Sir!’ and a super crisp ‘about-face’ and scurrying feet, that’s exactly what I did.

CHAPTER FOUR, RING KNOCKERS

Did I mention that when you first get into any military branch OCS program, don’t expect to have fun? They are demanding, challenging, and strenuous in many aspects. Of course, our TACs said, the Marine Officer training is tougher and rougher and any other academy. Who was I to argue with no other point of reference? To those of us that succeed, the blood, sweat, torment, and tears were worthwhile. To those that didn’t—well, I can’t speak for them. Even some of the top-quality candidates, man or woman, fail at something at one time or another. Those folks all just seemed to disappear as soon as they failed at any serious stage of the training cycle.

Admittedly, from all the physical exercise, my chest and arms got demonstratively bigger, but I was still inches shorter than the shortest of the Navy females that graduated in my class.

On graduation day, as a boot 2nd lieutenant, my heart swelled up with the love of my country and the honor of being able to serve. Not self-prideful, but with a sense of even thorough we were thrown into the harshest, most severe situations, we could prevail. Hallelujah! I made it!

"As a college senior, my best ever run at the 40 yard dash was bout six.five seconds flat with the wind at my back. In OCS, I wasn’t a tall candidate but, by God, I had ‘beefed out’ to one-hundred-eighty-five pounds. Most importantly, at graduation, I was a true blue, bona fide, Marine 2nd lieutenant, no matter if I was the shortest. 'World—you better watch out.' Was exactly what I was thinking."

I shipped out directly to Quantico for three weeks of Scout Sniper Platoon Commander instruction.

After that, they moved me to Dam Neck, Virginia, for the six-week Intelligence Officer Course. Because the Intel classes were multi-service, there were newly minted Lieutenant Ring Knockers from West Point in New York, and the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. As you may know, they have been nicknamed Ring Knockers because of their heavy gold academy class rings. Their fresh start on the ‘good old boy’ network and their crème de la crème attitudes were cultivating them towards snobbish ways. Needless to say, most of them believed they were god’s gift to the world by virtue of being military institute graduates.

No matter which institution they earned their degree from, I’ll confess to you what frosted all their butts, male or female. By completing the ROTC high school and the college programs, I was an O-1 with over four years of in-service-time for pay purposes. The West Point Lieutenants' time-in-service payments were only calculated as two-years. Even though they schooled for at least four consecutive years. That was a typical, asinine military ‘Gotcha’. There I was, because of the two extra years, earning nearly a thousand dollars more than them every month. You can not imagine how much that ticked off most of the academy wiener-heads. However, pissing them off is not conducive to making them your friends. Notably so, because being from the hallowed halls of their respective military academy, they would be promoted a few weeks before you. Sometimes only a few days meant they could lord over that earlier Date of Rank throughout your career. If all things were equal, and a commad slot came open--guess who got the position? As we all know, what goes around comes around. So be kind to ring knockers, especially the brand new Butter-bars. They are known to be touchy and might be your boss some day.

One member of the chorus line sang out a drawn-out, "Aaaa-men to that! Dumb and touchy!"

CHAPTER FIVE, WALTER REED

But I digress, the reason I'll probably have the problem of being too tall is that they blasted both my feet in Afghanistan. Doesn’t that sound weird, that I might be taller soon because they were blown to smithereens? Well, that’s not strictly true. One foot disinterested instantly, and the blast mangled the other beyond any resemblance of functionality. Except perhaps as a placeholder or shoe blocker for my boot. Little did I know this all would prove to be a blessing?

When an acutely wounded warrior is injured in Afghanistan, as most of you experienced, the return route is regularly to an in-country combat support hospital. Then, if injuries warrant more specialized treatment, you are automatically booked on to an Air Force MedEvac flight to Germany. If you’re fundamentally mended there, it’s right back to the war zone. If not, they fix you up with another medical flight to here, the stateside medical center.

As most of you all know, this facility used to be named the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The word ‘Army’ there was misleading because many wounded from all branches receive some, if not a lot, of their intensive and rehabilitating physical therapy there from servicemen and women of all military designations. In uniform or not, the entire staff is a blend of diverse skill sets. Some civilian employees work here more or less permanently. I’ve learned armed services medical personnel stationed here might stay for one or two tours of duty before drawing a rotation out. Others are assigned here for cross-branch and cross-field training. Customarily only for a few months. Recently, they changed our hospital’s nom de plume to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Same place, same outstanding care, but a new name. They probably had a task force of twenty people working on that title change for weeks. That’s what most bureaucracies do, from my experience.

One of the bystanders added, Ain’t that the truth! You should see the pile of paperwork, let alone my time wasted, trying to have the VA raise my disability rating. What a crock of—you know what?

Steele, wanting to stay in a positive vein, spoke on. As with the finest government agencies, military service members transfer in and out endlessly. Yet, there is a core of over thirty-five-hundred Department of Defense civilian workers that remain there consistently.

Seeing this small gathering of folks, a new Candy Striper stopped to hear a portion of Steele’s story. Her eyes fixated on his amputated foot and the other a mangled mess. By the way, I wish visitors would refrain from gawking at my stump. Or the silly question, asking me how I lost it. I realize no harm is meant. It’s not polite to stare and, ‘Damn it,’ I didn’t lose them. They were blasted to pieces. You can misplace your car keys, you can lose your shirt—well, you get my meaning. And I don’t think I’m the only veteran that feels that way. Many expressed similar sentiments. As a group, customarily, we are not adversarial over semantics. Right?

Most listeners nodded in concurrence.

The explosion that severed my right foot happened as I was stepping towards a dead enemy’s body whose suicide vest exploded. If I hadn’t been almost on top of the blast, in all probability, I would have been killed. As it was, the explosive eruption just sliced through my ankles. Miraculously, I’m alive to tell the tale.

Ever heard of a double foot and ankle amputee qualifying for the Olympic track events? One person did, even though from birth, his fibulas were missing. That necessitated below the knee amputations when he was under 5-years old. Now, as an adult, this guy runs on curved carbon fiber blades instead of athletic shoes. His awe-inspiring attitude and drive won him several Para-Olympics gold medals. To see him, a person much like me, running track and beating the competition blows my mind.

It makes me think of some perplexing advice my long-distance coach once gave me. He cautioned that if I couldn’t win, don’t come in second. His philosophy was all second-placer finishers would wonder if they could have won the race by adding a split second, every thousand feet? After all, a second-place finisher is the first loser in his screwed-up thinking. Was he trying to encourage me to run harder? Or was that his way of saying, ‘Shorty, give up running?’ To this day, I’m still not sure.

If you want to applaud people that won’t let you give up, my hat is off to the many military health care therapists and transport personnel crews that got me here. I’m told they flew me out of Afghanistan to Ramstein in short order. I remember very little except that a Navy doctor, indeed an O-5 Commander, and my right arm man, Buck Sergeant Kelly, were by my side on that flight. I don’t even recall how long we were at Ramstein before they flew me to Walter Reed. They had me too pumped up with voluminous doses of painkillers.

At Ramstein, they rushed me to the ICU preparation ward. The first thing I vaguely remember was a physician pulling a pile of electric monitors and other gadgets off my chest and off the gurney. Once I settled in the rolling bed, they gave me intravenous antibiotics and scheduled a flight to the states. Somehow, somewhere along the line, they called my unit to say they believed I was not going to make it. Can you believe how it felt overhearing that conversation, despite being so heavily medicated, and in and out of consciousness? My stay in Germany was just a stop-over en route to here because one foot was blown off, and the other blasted to smithereens. Most of what I relate to you folks was related to me after the fact. All I can relive are confusingly drugged dreams, swirling within sprinklings of reality.

Momentarily awake on a Germany-to-States flight, I realized my foot had vanished. Less importantly, my body sustained other wounds and was black and blue everywhere I could feel. Which was not much?

Incredulously, they offloaded me from the aircraft after a bunch of life support gear and monitors were piled on. What was I, a wheelbarrow, or a wagon? Then, several medics wheeled the junk and me over to the ambulance. Unbelievable! I wondered if civilian med-techs did those same things too. Come to think about that equipment stacked up—maybe I dreamed that too?

"Have I already told you all this stuff? My brain isn’t functioning too well, thanks