Loud & Clear

By Luke Marusiak

Hank Rudzinski always wanted to be a hero. He fi nds Amy, a partner in his quest, and
joins the Army. From Pennsylvania to West Germany; from a Georgia Army Post to a
Mississippi Air Force Base; from an Infantry Division in Missouri to the deserts of Iraq in
1991they realize that heroes are made of something different than rank or medals. They
also discover that great causes bring out the best but also the very worst of people. This
novel pulls aside the curtain to reveal the grandeur and grittiness of such pursuits. It is also
a novel of love and hate; highlighting the lifelong permanence of soul searing choices.
This book is part of the Good Fight Series and overlaps times and characters of
Marx & Ford and the upcoming Fear & Hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479777051

Luke Marusiak

Luke Marusiak was raised in Western Pennsylvania. He served in the U.S. Army culminating with the 1st Infantry Division in Desert Storm. He has resided in the Silicon Valley since the early 1990s working in semiconductors, hard drive media, and vacuum chamber systems in positions from process engineer to chief operating officer and CEO. He draws on his family, friendships, and experiences for his writing.

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Copyright © 2013 by Luke Marusiak.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2013900521

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-7704-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-7703-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-7705-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

I      LOVE

II      HOPE

III      ASPIRATION

IV      CRUCIBLE

TO MY WIFE DIANA

WHO MET ME AS A ROUGH-AROUND-THE EDGES SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD. YOU NOT ONLY LISTENED TO ALL OF MY CRAZY DREAMS, YOU BELIEVED THEM. I’VE SPENT MY LIFE IN THE SIMPLE ATTEMPT TO PROVE WORTHY OF THAT BELIEF.

AND

TO UNITED STATES ARMY SIGNAL CORPS SOLDIERS: PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.

Preface

Loud & Clear is historical fiction that covers the period from the end of the Cold War through Desert Storm from a boots on the ground perspective. But it is really a story about regular people with passions, flaws, and fears trying to make a difference. Loud & Clear follows a couple striving for the heroic and finding the quest a gritty endeavor with resolute rivals and unimaginable costs. This is the second of what will be six books of the Good Fight Series.

I wrote my first novel Marx & Ford while a process engineer working for Applied Materials. After a lot of rejections and years on the shelf I decided to get it out there and did so in 2011. The sales are far less than bestseller status but the positive responses from those who did read it prodded me to ask the question why do I write? It was my answer to that question that prompted me to outline a six book Good Fight Series using the characters introduced in Marx & Ford.

The series label is presumptive and I offer a few words of explanation. Edward Gibbon in his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire posits that there are two types of inclination in people: the love of pleasure and the love of action. To paraphrase a long passage, Gibbon states if the love of pleasure is refined it provides the greatest part of happiness in private life and the love of action is dangerous as it often leads to anger, ambition, and revenge. But if the love of action is in a virtuous one; a family, a state, or an empire can trust its safety to the undaunted courage of a single person.

The stories I write are about those who love action and attempt to be virtuous and courageous. Because so many who love action crave power for power’s sake there is an inevitable clash between those who ascribe to values and those who don’t. Victories in these clashes result in the most astounding achievements in humanity and, what is often lost in the history books, are won by regular people making extraordinary commitments. I know this because I have seen it with my own eyes. That’s what I call the Good Fight, that’s what I wrap my stories around, and telling these stories is why I write.

In the way of acknowledgements for Loud & Clear I owe a debt of gratitude for many who helped me with this book and I would like to offer thanks to the following:

My wife Diana, who encouraged me to keep writing, is my first reader and my closest counsel.

My son David, a Millennial who is asking all the right questions.

My early manuscript readers: Ken Zadegan, Brenda Thrasher, Jewel Knofler, my Mom Rosemarie Marusiak, my brother Matt Marusiak, Lee Wilkerson and an high school classmate that Marx & Ford reconnected after thirty-two years: Tony Pitrone. There is no greater fuel than having a group to laugh, cry, question and suggest as I write.

Steven Pressfield for The War of Art and Stephen King for On Writing.

A few (and incomplete) acknowledgements of my US Army friends and mentors: Colonel Walt Craig—you cemented the leadership lessons and helped me see the heroic. Colonel Tom Sheehy—if you’re ever commanding an Engineer Battalion and need comms give me a call. I’ll be your CESO anytime. My first platoon sergeant Staff Sergeant Roma Floyd—I had to exasperate you as a butter bar Second Lieutenant! Thank you for getting me out of trouble time and again. Those I knew in the desert as Captain Cindy Linquist and First Lieutenant Steve Schlabs—two of the finest Signal officers I had the honor to serve alongside.

Finally—a firm nod of gratitude to all fellow unsung Cold Warriors out there who sweat the tense and dangerous situations that no one watched; absorbed numerous casualties that no one counted; and won an improbable, amazing, and world changing victory that few remember.

For my blog and more information on my current and future books visit

www.lukemarusiak.com

—Luke Marusiak

December 28, 2012

Prologue

Headquarters, 689th Signal Battalion, 13th Infantry Division,

Fort Longstreet, Missouri

0700 CST, June 10, 1991

The captain looked at the flyer: WELCOME HOME THE HEROES OF THE 689TH SIGNAL BATTALION! It was the word hero that got him. I chose to be a hero . . . and paid the price. He shook his head. No more.

I didn’t miss much, did I sir? the lieutenant next to him asked.

The captain looked out of the window into the glinting sun at the farm countryside of Missouri. The question conjured memories just under the surface. He thought of bombardments and of blood streaking the sand. He thought of charred corpses and the ecstasy of victory. He remembered the horror of walking over to a charred corpse and discovering that it wasn’t a corpse. He remembered the death rattle. It was a person, a piece of humanity made of the same stuff as me.

He thought of battles waged at horizon-to-horizon distance. He remembered the horror… the explosion, the blood, and the agonized cry for help. I let them down. They counted on me and I let them down. The captain remembered hate—blinding, consuming rage. His little demon lifted his head. No Odi, he spoke to it. I don’t need you. The captain wondered if he were schizophrenically nuts. I have an imaginary demon. Does that make me crazy? According to Catch-22, if you’re sane enough to wonder if you’re crazy then you’re really fine . . . right?

The captain looked at the lieutenant and realized he hadn’t answered. You didn’t miss anything. It was a hundred hours, a walk in the park.

The captain turned his attention to the radio. No five-by, loud and clear signal here. He picked up the mike. Tango Tree Six, this is Sierra Two Fife, radio check, over.

The captain released the transmit button and waited. No response.

You could call on the phone, the lieutenant offered. We should make sure the weapons racks are there.

I would announce on a nonsecure telephone line that one hundred and thirty-seven M16s are going to be arriving for any interested terrorists. Now that I think of it, I need to get my pistol back.

Sir, we’re in the middle of Missouri. I don’t think anyone is tapping our lines.

We will do this right when we collect the M16s from our returning troops.

The captain looked at the paradoxical lieutenant. She was dressed in a woodland-patterned camouflage BDU—battle dress uniform. She was a soldier but, being eight months pregnant, looked ridiculous. Why did they make maternity BDUs?

I almost forgot to tell you, the lieutenant ventured, your father called.

This Desert Storm thing has Dad on a high. My World War II veteran father wants to congratulate me. He shook his head. Not now. The captain picked up the radio mike and pressed the transmit button. Tango Tree Six, this is Sierra Two Fife, radio check, over. He released the button. We’ll wait five minutes and try again.

Okay, sir. The lieutenant stared at the captain. What will you do, sir?

What’s that?

What will you do when you get out of the Army?

Anything I want.

Do you have something lined up?

Yes, I do.

What is it?

The captain looked at the lieutenant and thought the question inappropriate. I am going to be an engineer. I am going to take my uniform off and put it in a box. Any respect I gain will be by merit… not rank.

Sir, when I met you two years ago you were the epitome of an officer. What happened?

Is she trying to provoke me? He did not remember meeting her two years ago. I was going to get out before Desert Storm—right after I saw the Berlin Wall come down.

You could stay in and retire at a young age.

I would have to stay in for thirteen more years.

When you started, the lieutenant ventured, it wasn’t like this. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been that captain I saw two years ago. There must have been something… some reason you became a great officer. Whether you lost it or not… what you were was fabulous.

The captain raised his eyebrows. Fabulous? When I started it was a different world. It looked like we were about to lose the Cold War, and we came off as a third-rate power. I wanted to change it. Hmm . . . my dad is right about the generation thing.

You were ROTC—Reserve Officer Training Corps—right, sir?

The captain nodded.

New Jersey?

Not New Jersey! he barked. I was in ROTC at Winston College. He glanced at her blank stare. Winston College in Erie, Pennsylvania.

PART I

LOVE

Chapter 1

Hank Rudzinski sat in the back of the morality class in Winston College. Even though this was a Roman Catholic affiliated college he regarded the professor as an anachronism in 1981. She was a nun in full habit lecturing freshman and sophomores in a required liberal studies course. Hank, a freshman, pretended to pay attention. He looked at the long brown hair of another freshman two seats in front of him: Lisa. Her hair, he thought, is waist long. I like that. Lisa was oblivious. Hank introduced himself the first week of class and all Lisa said was, Are you old enough for college? Now she was staring at a pair of twins on the other side of the room.

Hank followed Lisa’s gaze. Those are the identical twins on my dormitory floor. He wondered if Lisa contemplated an orgiastic threesome with the twins. No . . . the twins are with their girlfriends . . . all sophomores.

He considered the four sophomores. Tom’s girlfriend, Sharon, looks wild; she’s red haired and volatile, always popping off about the injustices of the world. He noted John Staid’s girlfriend, Amy. He admired her shoulder-length blonde hair and watched as she studiously took notes. She is made of finer stuff . . . nothing like Lisa. Amy brightens any day with her sunny attitude . . . and she’s with John Staid.

There are three types of character, the professor stated, gold, silver, and bronze.

A twin raised his hand. The professor paused. Yes?

"You’re saying Plato’s Republic applies to us?" Tom Staid asked.

That’s right.

So we should find a philosopher king… one whose character is gold… who can lead us in these tough times… right?

The professor smiled. "Yes. Plato’s Republic is an education in itself, and this is one of the most important points. Those who would rule should first have their mettle tested so their character is proven to be of gold."

And how is that done? Tom asked. How is one’s mettle tested?

The professor walked between the rows of desks and stood over Tom Staid. She cupped both hands. You can’t know now. The only way to find out if your character is gold, to find out if you can lead, is to test it in the crucible of adversity. She presented the crucible of her cupped hands. It is only in the crucible of adversity that you discover the quality of your character.

A crucible? Tom asked. You mean like this class?

Students chuckled. The professor shook her head. No one here can tell if their character is gold, silver, or bronze. You must get out in the world. She walked to the front of the class and made a sweeping motion. You must find a challenge and push yourself. You must find the adventure that will test your mettle. A crucible is used to fire metals till they’re white hot… to see if gold comes out. She regarded the class. You can live your life and never know the quality of your character. You can wallow in mediocrity or… She paused until heads rose. Or you can find a challenge to test yourself in the crucible of white hot adversity.

Hank watched as Amy took notes. He watched the narrow frame of her back and taut shoulders move in rhythm with her breaths. That woman is perfect, absolutely perfect. The class ended and John stacked his calculus book on his notebook. What an odd pair of twins. Tom lives this liberal studies stuff and John couldn’t care less. At least John is an engineering major. Amy rose from her seat. I am glad I decided to take morality class as a freshman . . . otherwise I never would have seen Amy.

Hank entered the cafeteria, picked up a light lunch, and walked to the long tables. His heart skipped a beat.

Amy looked up. Hank! Grab a seat.

Hearing his name on her lips unnerved him. He sat across from Amy, grateful that he didn’t drop his tray and initiate caféwide applause. Amy was flanked on either side by John and Tom Staid.

Hey, Hank, Tom said, are you going to pledge Pi Gamma Delta when you’re a sophomore? John and I are about to be initiated.

Yeah, John added, we saw you at the party last weekend. We could help you out.

I… don’t know…

Amy rescued him. Hank doesn’t need to decide anything since they don’t allow freshmen to pledge. She laughed as John nuzzled her neck. He’s got to decide for himself. She motioned back and forth between the twins. He’s not like you two who are fused at the hip.

Hank felt hot jealousy at the easy affection between the couple.

Tom picked up on Amy’s comment. Do you have anyone you know at Winston College?

No. Hank shook his head. My best buddy is probably fishing now.

This comment piqued John’s interest. You fish? Whereabouts?

My dad and uncles have a camp in the middle of nowhere—Cameron County. My cousin Jerry is probably out on the stream now.

Cameron County? Tom exclaimed. Are you kidding me? Our family has a camp a couple miles from Driftwood.

I know Driftwood, Hank said. Our camp is in the area. It’s three miles from the Sterling Run bridge. Jerry likes to fish First Fork. I caught a seventeen-inch brown trout under the bridge near the Willows one night last year. There’s a great hole there that must be five feet deep.

The hole under the bridge near the Willows? John’s eyes widened. You mean the First Fork of the Sinnemahoning?

Yeah, there’s a great fishing hole at the T there.

"Tom and I know that hole. John nodded. Trust me. It’s at least eight feet deep."

"We even know the bottom of that hole! Tom said, elbowing his twin brother. I told you there were big fish under that bridge." John and Tom exchanged a knowing glance.

John regarded Hank. Anyone who fishes the First Fork of the Sinnemahoning is made of the right stuff for Pi Gamma Delta.

Friday evening Hank forgot about the Staid twins. He bounced out of his dorm into the unseasonably warm fall air of Erie, Pennsylvania. I like this city, he thought. It’s bigger than my hometown of DuBois. He walked up Sassafras Street and waited at the Ninth Street crosswalk. He appraised the imposing cathedral in front of him. Saint Pete’s . . . the home of the bishop of the Diocese of Erie. He stared at Saint Peter’s Cathedral and remembered the morality class. I’ll test my character. I’ll find the crucible . . . I’m going to be a goddamn hero.

He proceeded another block, turned the corner, and went into his favorite wind-down place: the video arcade. He pulled out his wallet. Eleven dollars . . . I’ll get five dollars in quarters. He went to the change machine and felt instant gratification as the quarters churned out. He loaded his pocket and went to his favorite game: Scramble.

He was the pilot of a spaceship firing a rapid-fire laser as fast as he could bang the A button and dropping two bombs at intervals by hitting the B button. There were rockets to laser and fuel depots to bomb. After using his five dollars of quarters he was left with the nagging thought that he didn’t record his initials as one of the high scores. He fished out his second five and turned those into quarters. He concentrated, spent twelve more quarters, and cracked the top three scores. He smiled at his initials on the screen. I don’t have money left for a burger, but my HTR initials should last for days.

Hank exited the arcade surprised it was past midnight and frigid. It feels like it’s about to snow. He hustled through the cold to his dorm and jogged up the stairs to the second floor. He walked down the hall, which was lined on both sides with enameled wood doors separated by cream-colored walls. He walked down the worn wine-colored carpet, and his eyes popped when Amy bounded out of one of the rooms. Amy? Are you okay?

Amy stopped, stared, and smiled in recognition. Yeah, I’m fine. It’s my boyfriend I’m worried about.

What happened?

It’s initiation day. All the PGD—Pi Gamma Delta—pledges were kidnapped a couple of hours ago. Amy motioned to the Staid twins’ room. Tom made it back, but there’s no word on John.

You think he’s in trouble?

He’s being a stubborn ass. She shook her head. He’s just being John.

I should say something clever. Words failed him.

Amy locked eyes with Hank. Don’t you ever do that, she instructed in a firm voice. "If you get kidnapped next year and need help, you call me. I’ll come and get you."

I… I will. Did she just ask me to call her?

Amy nodded and went into the restroom. Hank walked to his room. A door down the hall popped open and he heard a burst of laughter. Hank blinked in disbelief as one of his fellow dorm mates, Paul, backed Lisa up to a wall and kissed her. Wait, she whispered. And without shame or pretense, Lisa stepped away from Paul, hiked her undone jeans up to her waist, and zipped her pants. Without a glance they breezed by arm in arm. Paul? You’re sleeping with Paul? He entered his room and saw that his roommate, Phil, was fast asleep.

Hank looked about his dorm room. On one wall was a six-foot poster of Marilyn Monroe exuding a pined-for sexuality. There was a bed on either side of his room with a window at the end. On the window side of the room was a bench from one wall to the other with two sets of drawers separating the middle. One half of the bench served as a desk for him and the other for his roommate. Behind the makeshift desk was a metal grill covering the steam-powered radiator that occasionally warmed the room. The windows looked outside into a small copse of trees. The dorm dated from the sixties and was a mixture of tan brick, aluminum, and sheets of red glass intermingled between the windows.

He looked at his bed. Second semester of college and I haven’t used this yet . . . for sex. He thought of the tight jeans Lisa was wearing on Wednesday. What do the Penthouse magazines call that when you can see the crease? Oh yeah, the camel toe. He thought of her hiking up her jeans. How does Paul get laid so easily? God I want sex! Sex with coeds, sex with Lisa . . . I want sex with . . . Amy. He stopped. This thought was mixed with more than lust. She’s with John. He got in his bed discontented, and went to sleep.

Hank sat upright after hearing a resounding crash in another room. What happened? He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and went out to the hallway.

Shut the fuck up, Phil said as he popped his head up from bundled covers.

Hank ignored his roommate and proceeded down the narrow hallway to where he heard the noise. He heard loud conversation coming from the Staid twins’ room. As he got closer he could make out Tom scolding his brother. The son of a bitch made it back. He stopped beside the twins’ room and heard the exchange.

You’re not alone, John. That was Tom’s voice. I can’t believe that you decided that you had to get back all by yourself. You should listen to me more. We are all part of a society, not loners.

You asshole! That was John’s voice.

Hank heard enough. He surmised that the ruckus was John crashing through his dorm window. He’s been outside in the cold for hours? That’s initiation? He went back to his room in a funk. Thank God summer is coming. This college stuff is crap. Jerry and I will do some fishing and talk of our future heroic quests. He heard more commotion in the hallway. That’s Amy’s voice. He felt a twinge of depression.

Hank’s hopes for a summer of carousing with Jerry after his freshman year were unmet. There was only one summer Cameron County fishing trip and Jerry wasn’t himself. He complained that the lumpiness of the camp’s bunk gave him a backache. After only a couple of hours at First Fork, without having caught anything, Jerry demanded they go back to camp. Even worse, Jerry begged off on further fishing trips, as he had doctor appointments for his sore back. Summer went by in an unmemorable blur, and Hank entered his sophomore year unmotivated.

The strobe light blinked on the dance floor at the PGD fraternity house the first week of class, and Hank surveyed the gyrating dancers. There’s Lisa. He watched as she swung her long hair and moved in sync with some guy. He dipped his cup into the garbage can full of punch and grain alcohol and took a sip. This tastes rough. He set his cup on a ledge and moved to the bar. The music paused as he ordered a Long Island Iced Tea.

He took a sip from his new drink. This is much better. Lisa and her date came to the bar, and he couldn’t help overhearing her excited voice. I’m going to have to cut my hair. Otherwise I’d need a really big helmet. Helmet? He listened further and understood. Lisa joined the Winston College Army ROTC program? Hank felt envy and regret. Why did she do that? He took his drink upstairs.

A group in the middle of the living room were drinking and laughing. Hank’s mood soured upon seeing Amy next to John. He approached and listened to the story in progress.

So we are waiting for two hours thinking John was a goner.

I even sent the cops out looking for him, Rocky offered.

And my stubborn twin brother decides he has to walk back alone!

I didn’t think I’d get in PGD if anyone saw me, John said. I used barbed wire to turn my bedspread and sheets into clothes. I dealt with the situation rather than call for help like someone else. He solidly punched Tom in the shoulder. Calling for help? No wonder they named you Marx.

Marx and Ford, Ducky said. Those names are perfect for you.

Marx and Ford, Rocky repeated. Our famous twins.

Hank reacted to the nicknames. Marx and Ford are their frat names? For twins? That’s got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!

Tom noticed him. Here is one of this year’s pledges: Hank Rudzinski.

Hank coughed. Hey, guys.

You know the bids go out next week. Get ready! John announced. We’re going to have some fun with this year’s pledges.

Hank cleared his throat. He saw Amy glance at John and roll her eyes. I would have to get kidnapped?

He stared at his Pi Gamma Delta bid for two days. I don’t want to go through the ten weeks of hazing, but, even worse, who would I be in this frat? He recoiled at having to pledge brotherhood and submit. I’m not sure if I respect those guys. He rejected the bid, which made him an instant outcast with the frat brothers. Once, he bumped into the Staid twins, and all John could say was, Look at the GDI! which stood for goddamn independent—a non-frat-affiliated student.

Hank tried to cram for his tests like he did in high school with little success. He looked at his midterm grades. It was now April, deep in the second semester of his sophomore year, and his lack of motivation was recorded. There were a row of Cs, two Bs, and a D. He closed the report card. He knew that with a little work he could bring the D to a C, but that was it. So I can make a 2.2 . . . barely a C average . . . the definition of mediocrity . . . some fucking hero.

He set his grades on his desk. I need to get out of here. There’s no sex, no adventure, and nothing heroic here. I am going to get a 2.2 this semester . . . mediocrity. Hank walked the Erie campus pondering. My cousin Casmir—Cas seems happy working at the stoneware plant, driving his new car, and never missing a hunting season. Then there’s Jerry. He’s working at Conrail, making good money, and doing whatever he feels like. He walked in the midst of milling students and felt an extraordinary solitude. I want to be a hero, he thought. Is that a stupid dream?

He stopped in front of the science building. The Winston College Army ROTC office is in there. I could still do that. If Lisa can get into ROTC I should be able to.

The ROTC administrator looked Hank up and down. His shaggy hair, faded jeans, and flannel shirt did nothing to improve his chances. Are you a freshman? she asked.

No, I’m finishing my sophomore year, Hank answered.

I’m sorry, you missed the deadline.

Deadline?

You had to sign up the first week of this semester—by January 10. Otherwise you don’t get a slot in ROTC basic camp.

I missed that too?

Hank walked up Sassafras Street to the video arcade. He spent a couple hours in the arcade playing Scramble and cracking the top five scores. I can still do that. He walked back to his dorm in a pensive mood.

Phil met him as he entered his room. Hank, you need to call home.

What?

Your parents called. I think something happened.

Hank walked down the hallway to the pay phone.

Hello? his mom’s voice answered.

Hi, I heard you called?

Oh, Hank. Come back. You need to come back. Oh, I’ve got such bad news. His mom’s voice had a hurried, out-of-breath quality.

What’s the matter?

You need to come back. So sad…

What? What’s so sad?

Come back.

Mom! What happened?

Jerry died today.

What? Jerry? Hank lowered to a crouch and grabbed the edge of the pay phone booth. How?

It was a cancer. It surprised everybody. When are you coming back?

Thanks for telling me, Mom. I’ll be down for the funeral. He seated the phone in its cradle. Jerry died? He goes from a backache to cancer?

Close to tears, Hank went down the hall toward the door. Outside, he broke into a frenzied jog. He ran a block, two blocks, and stopped. Jerry is dead. How could that be? He is what . . . twenty-eight? My hunting and fishing partner is . . . gone? How in the fuck does a backache turn into cancer that kills you? He couldn’t process it. I need to talk to someone. The only person he could think of was Amy. What did she tell me? If you get kidnapped next year and need help, you call me.

He walked to the girl’s dorm. He didn’t want to go to the front and sign in. Amy’s an RA—resident assistant. I know where the RA room is . . . on the first floor. He went around the building to her window. There’s a light on. Full of anxiety, he walked to her window. I don’t know her . . . but she’s the one person in this whole college who ever offered to help me. He lifted his hand and lowered it three times, not sure what to do. Then almost by accident, he let his hand drop and a loud knock reverberated.

The curtain opened and Amy’s face appeared. She slid the window open. Hank, what are you doing out there? She looked at his distraught expression. I’ll be right out.

Hank stood at her window in a muddled state when Amy came around the corner.

What’s wrong, Hank?

Can we talk? He stifled a sob. My cousin Jerry died.

Of course. Amy studied Hank. Jerry’s your fishing friend, right? She stared at Hank for a couple of moments. Do you have a car?

Uh, yes. You want me to drive somewhere?

I know just the place, she said. Let’s go to Presque Isle.

Presque Isle?

I was out there today with John. It’s beautiful.

With John?

Yeah, he and Tom are doing a fraternity prank that I want no part of. She looked at Hank. I’ll help you.

He drove to Presque Isle and parked facing west. They exited the car and faced the broad expanse of Lake Erie where the sun would set. When they got out of the car Hank realized they had no towel, so he removed two floor mats. They walked to the shore, and he was calmed by the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves. Hank plopped the mats down, and they sat with their feet digging in the coarse sand.

Amy turned to Hank. Tell me what happened.

Well, I was bumming about my grades so I went to the arcade and spent some quarters to put my HTR on the Scramble board. He sighed. When I got back, Phil told me I needed to call home. That’s when I found out.

"HTR? What does the T stand for?"

That’s what you ask me? Thaddeus.

Henry Thaddeus Rudzinski… I can see your parents wanted to ensure a legacy for your Polish heritage.

Well, yeah. So, Amy Bauer—what nationality is Bauer anyway?

German.

Hah, a Kraut! I had a few uncles who took care of the Krauts in 1945.

Don’t even try that stuff with me! My uncle still has the parachute he used in Normandy on D-Day!

How about your dad?

Amy laughed. He was in the Army all right but not until the early fifties. He was stationed in West Germany and is full of stories. She turned to look at him. How about your dad?

My dad was in the Navy in World War II. He still shakes his head about the Kamikazes coming in during the Battle off Samar. Hank listened to the rolling waves and shook his head. Jerry and I always talked about joining up.

They were on the edge of the water on a tousled beach. They stopped talking and stared at a brilliant rainbow that framed the striking sunset. She gave him time and Hank marveled at how she sensed exactly what he needed. The sun moved lower in the sky, and the rainbow expanded into a double rainbow. The water sparkled under orange streaks of sunlight that shot out from the clouds. It was a beautiful and bizarre setting.

Hank looked at Amy. Jerry died today.

I am so sorry.

I just talked to him two months ago. He was fine… He gripped his knees and squeezed them until his knuckles were white.

Amy punched him in the shoulder. Hey, she said. I’m here. If you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m right here.

Thanks. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept without shame for a lost friend. You know, he said, Jerry was my partner at becoming an altar boy. He was fourteen and big and he was my friend. I was a scrawny eight-year-old. In order to be a real altar boy you had to lift this top-heavy brass cross from its mount and carry it. He nodded and panted. It was wrath of God and gates of hell if you let the cross drop, and you couldn’t practice with the real thing.

Amy squeezed his shoulder. How did Jerry help you?

One day I was looking at the serving schedule and there I was. Hank Rudzinski paired up with Jerry Giordano. I wondered if he was the one who set the schedule.

Giordano? I thought he was your cousin?

Well, yes—on my mom’s side. She’s Italian.

Really? So you’re both Polish and Italian?

Polish guys and Italian gals are a common combination in Western Pennsylvania.

Hmm.

Anyway, the time had come for me to carry the cross, so Jerry decided to teach me. He laughed. He tied a full beer can to the top of a broom and told me to lift it. I grabbed it with both hands. He showed Amy how he had both hands close together. And I tried to lift it. The broom came crashing down. He shuddered and stared at the sunset.

He cleared his throat. No, Jerry tells me, here is how you grab it. Keep your hands about two feet apart and you can balance it. So at Mass, Jerry and I are the altar boys, and it comes time for me to get the cross, and what do I do? He demonstrated to Amy with his hands close together. I lift it wrong and it starts going. It began to tip over and I swear I heard an ‘oh my’ from one of the women in the pews. But then, just in time, I snap my other hand up and right the cross. Jerry just nodded at me, you know? Like he was saying I knew you could do it all along!

Hank felt a rush of anger. God, this is not fair!

Hey, take it easy, Amy said.

Hank picked his head up and looked at the shimmering colors of the sunset, but his anger did not cool. I’m going to die just like Jerry. This is nothing but a trap ending in death. There is nothing left.

Amy gave him a puzzled look. Hank, I’m sorry for you but you’ve got your whole life and get to choose what to do with it.

He looked at her with wild eyes. Don’t you see? I’m trapped. I’m going to die just like him, and it’s going to be nothing.

What are you talking about?

He babbled. I wanted to be a big hero. I need to take a big risk, and there is no one to cheer me on. He shook his head. Damn it!

Look, she said, "you take a risk. I’ll cheer you on."

You don’t get it. I’m trapped. I just… God, I feel so bad.

Amy embraced him, and again he rested his head on her shoulder. You know, he said, Jerry used to take me hunting. He looked at her. Do you hunt?

God no, but my dad loves hunting. He doesn’t sleep the night before buck season and at least a couple of Thanksgivings we were digging lead shots out of our turkey dinner.

Your dad is a good guy! Well, then you know that there are codes with hunters—like you always carry your own gun. Once, Jerry and I were out grouse hunting, and we went into this place that was mined during World War II, and it had platform-type flat spots that were covered with trees. It was a maze, and after a morning of hunting we were lost. Every time we moved we ended up right back to where we started, staring at our own spent shotgun shells.

Hank took a deep breath. By afternoon we were in trouble, and we started dragging a stick. It sounds nuts, I know, but we were dragging this stick to make sure we wouldn’t go in a circle. We walked until we heard water and then went to a stream. We followed the stream until we came to a road. Once on the road we realized we were miles from camp.

I couldn’t carry my shotgun anymore. I felt like my arms were going to fall off, and what does he do? He takes my shotgun and carries both our guns for miles on that road. It turned dark and I was scared and he talked like nothing was the matter. When we got outside of camp, he handed my shotgun back to me and said, ‘No one needs to know.’ We went in acting like nothing happened. Hank sobbed. He carried my shotgun all that way and never let anyone know. What kind of friend does that?

Hank cried without restraint and Amy embraced him. He felt her arms encircle him and her warm, soft hands caress him. She hugged him close, and he shed his tears onto her shoulder. "You said I get to choose about my life. Well, Jerry didn’t get to choose."

What do you want to do with your life?

I want to be a hero. He gasped. I mean…

She took the comment seriously. "That’s a noble goal if you’re a real hero… and that’s not being a pompous braggart. It’s doing the big things… right."

Hank blinked tears from his eyes. "But what can I do?"

Choose it.

Choose it?

Choose to be a hero: pick great ideals, act with courage, face adversity… choose it.

Okay, for Jerry, for you…

No! Amy scolded. "You must choose it for you."

And there, sitting in the sand of Presque Isle, Hank made the choice. I choose to be a hero in all that’s best and pay whatever price.

Now, she said softly, act on it.

He inhaled. What are you doing with John?

Amy hugged him and let a long pause settle. I suppose you think I should be with you. You think you’re worthy?

Hank’s mind raced, and he blinked his eyes to clear them. Your dad would like me.

Hmm, Amy considered. No, I’m afraid to say he wouldn’t.

What?

My dad has strong points of view. He’s six foot five and is quite tough on my dates. He has exacting standards. She nodded firmly. He tells me, ‘Amy, my darling daughter, you are the apple of my eye and you can date whomever you want.’ She paused for effect. Just so long as they’re not Polacks, Wops, or altar boys.

Hank laughed and, with the back of his hand, wiped the dampness from his cheek. He looked out across Lake Erie and noticed that the sun was now on the horizon and sent bright, golden rays skyward through the clouds while a bright orange reflection glittered in a line across the lake.

Amy?

Hmm?

Just what does your dad have against altar boys?

Amy laughed. She pushed Hank’s shoulder with both hands, and they both laughed as the sun set across the lake.

Chapter 2

Hank felt a rush of anxiety as the plane accelerated. My first plane trip . . . this risk is all mine. He gasped as the plane lifted off the ground at a steep angle of climb. He plastered his face to the window.

He marveled at the airborne view of Interstate 79’s cloverleaf exits and wondered at the myriad of antlike cars and trucks moving below. He turned from the window. I need to be worthy of Amy. It was a ridiculous thought. I need to become a soldier. I’m glad I found a loophole to get into ROTC. He planned to join the Army as a private and get attached to an Erie Army Reserve unit. If he could achieve that—being a soldier in the Army Reserve—before his junior year started and if Winston College’s Professor of Military Science approved, he could squeak in under the wire.

Hank remembered his father’s surprise. I caught him completely off guard. He had left his father at the recruiting station that was now miles away. He opened his eyes as the stewardess came by and asked if he’d like something to drink.

Orange juice will be fine.

The stewardess placed it on his tray. There you go, hon.

We are at our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, and we expect a smooth ride. The voice of the pilot came over the intercom. The total flight time is scheduled to be three hours and thirty-four minutes.

Thirty thousand feet? That’s over five miles! Hank once more turned to the window. The roads had shrunk to mere scratches, and try as he might, he couldn’t make out the cars. He marveled at the layers of the clouds. Above the plane were horsetails of vapor that curved upward into the deepest blue. He saw wispy clouds in an aura at the curvature of the earth and illuminated with a dull orange glow. I am really doing this.

His meal was served, and he marveled at everything about the airborne meal. Look at this: little pouches of salt and pepper, a small plastic tub of margarine and two plastic bowls, one with an omelet and the other containing sliced melon. Hank ate every bite of his meal with satisfaction. This is the first meal of my new life. After eating he leaned back and dozed.

He opened his eyes, blinked, and stared at the illuminated fasten seat belt sign. As he focused on the lit sign, the pilot informed everyone that they were going to hit turbulence. As soon as the voice stopped uncertain forces buffeted the plane. Hank perspired. The rocking induced nausea; his vision blurred and he wondered if he was about to faint. He gripped the side of the seat. I’m in this tiny aluminum cylinder, and I could die today and no one would care. Well, Mom and Dad would care. Dad! He called out telepathically. I’m trying to be one who loves action.

His father was a fan of Winston Churchill, and when he heard that Churchill’s favorite book was Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire he devoured it and passed on a memorable passage to his son. Hank couldn’t remember the exact words, but the idea was burned in his mind. There are two types of people, he remembered as the plane rocked. Most love pleasure, and if they are good and honest they can live creditable lives. The other type is rare and has the potential for danger: those who love action. A lot of evil come from those types who are often villains and wicked leaders, but if the one who loved action could be imbued with a sense of duty and honor—and if this sense were accompanied with equal abilities—a family, a state, or an empire could rest its security on the undaunted courage of a single man. Courage! I must have courage. I am trying to be a man of action—a hero.

Hank dreamed he was that hero. Be it a flood where he had to save a drowning child or a war where he would lead a charge on the enemy or a crisis of morals, he would respond as one against the world through all hardships and difficulty. He would seize the heroic. The permutations of his vision were endless: he was a firefighter saving young people from a burning building; he was a great scientist discovering the cure for cancer; he was an inventor designing the perpetual motion machine. Again and again though, one permutation recurred more than the others: he dreamed he was a soldier leading men in battle in distant, faraway places. Bullets would fly and he would not mind; people would die and he would comfort them as they died in his arms; and he would move on, risk all, and save the day.

The plane descended and he got a closer look at the landscape. The land was flat as far as the eye could see—as if there was a massive square pan of dirt that houses, grass, trees, and roads were put on. This is so flat—so different from Pennsylvania. As the decent continued he wondered about the blue glint beside many of the houses and, with a rush of amazement, realized the blue glints were swimming pools—personal swimming pools. The thought was staggering. How could anyone be so rich?

The pilot announced they were making the final approach. What exactly is a final approach? He felt his insides being pulled toward his chest, and he clutched the edge of the seat as the nose of the plane eased down and, with a suddenness that startled him, eased back up. The plane bumped, jerked, and he felt rough rubbing underneath. The engines reversed, and Hank felt himself pushed toward the front of the plane. So that’s a landing.

He panted as he rushed through the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. Everywhere he looked people rushed by. He looked at lit numbers, seated people, and wondered where to go next. He needed help. He saw an information stand with a long line of people. He had only thirty-five minutes to find his next gate. Heart pounding, he walked up to the information lady, ignored the glares from those in line and, in a tremulous voice, said, I’m joining the Army. I have to make my next flight! Please help me.

The flight attendant gave him a quizzical look. She raised a knowing finger to the passenger next in line and reached out and took the ticket out of Hank’s deathlike grip.

It says here you’re on Flight 436. She pointed to the number on the ticket envelope. She pointed over Hank’s shoulder. Go to those monitors and find Flight 436 to Lawton, Oklahoma, and you’ll see your gate. There is a map of the airport there. Hank saw a color diagram on a concrete pole. That will tell you where the gate is.

He went to the monitors and looked at every single name and number of the destinations, but he did not find Flight 436. Minutes ticked by. What is the matter? How come I can’t find the flight? Then he saw the title above the set of monitors. Arrivals? He looked right to another set of monitors. Departures! Frantic, he gazed at those, found Flight 436 and discovered that his next gate was C33. He looked at the gate number above him. I’m at A10? He walked to the map. I’m about as far away as possible. I need to get to A39 and then somehow get to the other semicircle of gates that started at C1. He felt a flash of panic.

He walked and then picked up his pace and jogged… A15… A19… A25… the gates ticked by, and he looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes left! He didn’t know if he had enough time… A35… A36… A37… A38… A39… In the midst of jogging and panting, he was overwhelmed by a rush of sensations: concrete pillars, moving sidewalks, and people everywhere. Everyone was a stranger, and he was in an unknown place where there wasn’t a single soul in this crowd of humanity that knew his name. He was in a bizarre solitude in the midst of a din of noise and a crush of people.

He got to the middle section. This airport is set up in rings! Why didn’t I see that before? Those things moving around on rails intersect the rings to take people from one gate to another. He wasn’t sure how to use the trams, but he moved toward gate signs lit up in circle lights listed along the wall. The only way to get to my gate is to pile on this goofy flat car with no driver. He saw others step in, so he got in line and walked inside the tram. He checked at least three times beforehand that his gate was, in fact, listed on the display. C33 . . . C33 . . . that’s what I want.

I have orders, government orders—official orders, my first Army orders since taking the oath—to report to Fort Sill, Oklahoma. He tried to slow his breathing. This is my first act as a soldier. I signed my name and raised my hand and took the oath to defend the Constitution of the United States and obey the orders of my superiors—and I’m about to fuck up the very first order! He looked at the faces around him and noted their aloofness and their confidence. He noticed the tram moved over concrete so hot waves of heat shimmered off while planes and baggage handlers whizzed by the windows.

The tram stopped and he exited. Hank looked down a long corridor. There’s C1! I’m in the right place! He broke into a run. He approached and passed C1… C2… C3. There was a crowd of people in front of C4, and he had to slow down to wade his way through, but with fifteen minutes to spare he arrived at C33. He saw a line of people under a lighted sign that read Flight 436, Lawton, Oklahoma, and he took his place. Agonizing minutes later he got to the front of the line. A lady took his paper ticket, processed a thin cardboard boarding pass, and handed both back to him.

You’re all set. Go to gate C33E… down those stairs when you’re called. Hank noticed that there were two C33s. There was one labeled C33 and was large with many seats. There was another one labeled C33E, and was nothing more that a door that led to a narrow flight of stairs. He sat on the edge of a vinyl rubber seat next to an older lady and noted that she filled her own seat up as well as some of his. He wondered if he’d be able to keep his knees from knocking when he stood up. The Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was an unsettling experience.

Hank walked across the tarmac to a small plane. His heart was in his throat. He walked up the narrow stairs, ducked into the cabin, and looked for an empty seat. He sat down and perspired.

He looked out the small window and could see the long wing with two turbo props. Why in God’s name did I ever join the Army? The plane rumbled to a start and taxied out to the runway. Hank stared at the wings and watched them wiggle. That doesn’t look stable. The plane roared off the runway and turned into a steep bank. The plane climbed, ran into a bank of clouds, and was buffeted. Hank peered out the window and, to his horror, saw the wing waving up and down in time to the rocking plane.

Mercifully, the plane eased out of the thick clouds. After a short time of dazed apprehension Hank felt the plane descend, and in moments the plane landed with a bone-jarring jolt. He sighed with relief when he put his foot down on the hard tarmac of the small airport of Lawton, Oklahoma. He managed to find the baggage section and grabbed his suitcase.

Recruits reporting to Fort Sill, Oklahoma! a grizzled sergeant said.

Hank’s spirits lifted. Someone knew I was coming! He walked over to the sergeant, who eyed his suitcase. Hank felt an immediate kinship with the two other Army recruits that were on his plane from Dallas.

The sergeant crammed them in the back of a green van and drove them to Fort Sill, Oklahoma. The recruits were escorted to a simple bunk with a wool blanket situated in a huge bay that slept forty. Hank picked a bunk that faced a window. I want to see the sunrise. He climbed in bed and felt the bite of wool on his skin. His heart pounded with anxiety.

Hank experienced the next three weeks as a kaleidoscopic stream of consciousness.

Move it! Assholes and elbows!

Southern drawls, New England twangs, meek tenors, and strong baritone voices filled the air.

Hurrying! Running! Standing in line, waiting, getting sized up like a piece of meat, receiving uniforms tossed and put in a duffel and laundry bag. Battle dress uniforms! BDUs! Wait till Dad sees me in camouflage. Shorn of hair, the recruits look like the weak kids they are.

Now they’re marshaled into the medical area. Where is your shot record, recruit?

I forgot it, sir.

Laughter. No problem, stand in that line over there.

Waiting, waiting, then to a line of doctors with air guns on either side. Give this one the full load. Pfftt. Pfftt. Both shoulders assaulted. Step forward! Pfftt. Pfftt. Step forward! Pfftt. Pfftt. Both shoulders dripping blood. I can’t lift my arms! Small pox… step forward! Needle pokes in the left shoulder and then a Band-Aid with gauze is applied. You’re all done. I can’t lift my arms!

Move it! I can’t believe our all-volunteer Army has to rely on such miserable excuses for human beings. Assholes and elbows!

Name tags and dog tags and boots and dress greens handed out with sizes recorded.

Goddamnit, you recruits are slow! Move it!

Standing in line, waiting.

Assholes and elbows!

Standing in line, waiting.

Get in the cattle cars!

Crammed in tight, hanging from rails, foul-smelling recruits are jostled as they trundle to the barracks. Coarse new uniforms chafe soft skin.

Get out! Move, move, move!

Another drill sergeant bellows, Get in formation! Over here.

Private Rudzinski is slow and burdened by his new gear. A drill sergeant, distinguished by his dark brown, broad rimmed Smokey Bear hat, screams an inch away from his nose, Get on your face! Push-ups! Get down and give me ten.

Rudzinski got into a canted push-up position.

Count ’em out loud!

One, umff, two…

Look at this skinny-wristed motherfucker! God, you piss me off! Get in formation.

Stand here. Extend your left arm. Space it out this way. The first formation begins to take shape. You are the most miserable group of recruits I have ever seen!

Atten-SHUN! The drill sergeant looks left and right. Goddamnit, when I call attention you better not be jawing or gawking or whatever the hell else you’re doing. Atten-SHUN!

Another drill sergeant patrols the formation. Eyes to the front! Shoulders back, chest out!

Later all were assigned bunks in new sandstone barracks where each soldier found his locker identified by his name written on masking tape. At 0430 the following morning the drill instructor rousted them while dressed in a brown T-shirt, white sneakers, and BDU pants.

Up and at ’em! Are you going to sleep all day? Dress so you look like me! The drill sergeant held up a black flashlight with an attached green cone. Bring your flashlights. It’s still dark out there!

All ran in formation in the Oklahoma desert, with flashlights on, kept in sync by the Army cadences.

Repeat what I say! One two! the drill sergeant sang.

One two, the formation sang in answer.

Three four!

Three four.

Break it on down now!

One, two, three, four… One, TWO, THREE, FOUR!

I want to be an Airborne Ranger! the drill sergeant sang in a booming voice.

I want to be an Airborne Ranger! the recruits repeated in unison.

Live the life of sex and danger!

Live the life of sex and danger!

I want to go to Viet NAM!

I want to go to Viet NAM!

Get me some of those Viet CONG!

Get me some of those Viet CONG!

Private Rudzinski was exhilarated as he ran three deep in the fourth row of the rectangular formation.

One Oh One, scream-IN’ EAGLES!

One Oh One, scream-IN’ EAGLES!

Pick up you weapon and follow me. We’re the air assault infan-TREE!

Pick up you weapon and follow me. We’re the air assault infan-TREE!

Steam rolled off the recruits as the sergeants ran alongside and circled them.

Eighty Second, all-A-MER-ican patch on my shoulder!

Eighty Second, all-A-MER-ican patch on my shoulder!

Pick up your weapon and follow me. We’re the airborne infan-TREE!

Pick up your weapon and follow me. We’re the airborne infan-TREE!

Lucky Thirteen—patch on my shoulder!

Lucky Thirteen—patch on my shoulder!

Pick up your weapon and follow me. We’re the armored infan-TREE!

Pick up you weapon and follow me. We’re the armored infan-TREE!

The formation returned to the barracks from a different direction. A circling drill sergeant changed the cadence. You’re all part of a train! Sync your arms waving those flashlights. Here we go!

Choo… choo, choo… choo, choo… choo!

Private Rudzinski moved his flashlight in identical circular motions as everyone around him. He could see the long rectangle of recruits stretched out in front of him with steam rolling off as the green lights rotated in unison. The effect was hypnotic. This is fantastic!

Choo… choo, choo… choo, choo… choo!

The first PT—physical training—session of the recruits’ basic training ended, and they formed up in front of their barracks.

Stand at EASE!

The drill sergeant glared at them. You think you did well out there?

Murmurs of assent came from the panting recruits.

WHAT? I CAN’T HEEAAR YOU!

Yes, Sergeant!

WHAT?

YES, SERGEANT!

Well, you didn’t! You are nothing, lower than low.

The drill sergeant approached a large recruit in the middle row. Do you know where the lowest point on earth is?

NO, SERGEANT!

Figures, get on down and start knocking ’em out!

The recruit dropped and began banging out push-ups.

Count ’em out loud!

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

On your feet! He scanned the group. Whenever I say drop, you drop and give me ten. He scowled. In this pansy-ass all-volunteer Army I can only drop you for ten push-ups at a time. He smiled and pointed to the recruit who had just completed his push-ups. Drop! The same recruit dropped and laboriously completed ten more push-ups. But you see, I can drop you for ten again and again, so it don’t matter!

The drill sergeant continued. "The lowest point on earth is the Mariana Trench in the Pacific Ocean. Sharks swim by and their shit sinks, so there is some shark shit in the bottom of the lowest point on earth: the Mariana Trench. You all are so low you are below the shark shit in the Mariana Trench. He looked left and right. You better sound off! How low are you?"

We’re lower than shark shit in the Mariana Trench!

You got that right. Get cleaned up.

Rudzinski pretended to shave by lathering up his face and scraping the lather off with a double-bladed razor. It’s not like I