What’s Life Without a Dream?: How I Overcame Abuse and Delinquency to Become an FBI Agent

By Gary Marting

Gary Marting grew up with an abusive father, and outside school, he mixed with the wrong crowd.

Eventually, he began abusing alcohol, and one time, he came dangerously close to teaming up with a friend to commit a felony.

After a dismal record in high school, no colleges would accept him.

Knowing all that, it would seem like hed be the last person to make something of himself, but somehow, he became an intelligence officer during the Vietnam War and then achieved his dream of becoming an FBI agent.

In Whats Life Without a Dream?, he looks back at his difficult childhood, including how he overcame childhood bullying, as well as what led him to join the Air Force and his role in the war.

Marting could have easily allowed his life to unfold in a different direction. But with determination and grit, he climbed over obstacles and never once gave up on his dream.

Join Marting as he examines how he beat the odds, met his wife by sheer chance in Las Vegas, and made his mark as an FBI agent catching federal fugitives and solving white-collar crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480852495

Gary Marting

Gary Marting is a native of Springfield, Illinois, and a retired FBI agent. He graduated from Southern Illinois University in 1965 and served as a U.S. Air Force intelligence officer in Thailand, Vietnam, and Nevada. He has been recognized by the FBI for his uncanny ability to locate and arrest federal fugitives and for solving white-collar crimes. After retiring from the FBI, he worked in the drug-testing program for the National Football League. He lives with his wife of almost fifty years, Diana, in Raleigh, North Carolina. They have two children and two grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2017 Gary Marting.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book. With two noted exceptions, all names in this book are true.

The FBI, pursuant to the agency’s Prepublication Review Policy (PRP), has reviewed all FBI information contained herein, determined than none falls within a restricted area of disclosure, and has no objection to the publication of this manuscript.

All opinions expressed in this book are the author’s, and not those of the FBI.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5247-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5248-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5249-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017915926

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/04/2018

Contents

Introduction

Part One

Beginnings

1.   Heritage

2.   Family

3.   A Man with Two Sides

4.   Dreamer

5.   Best Buddy

6.   Growing Up

7.   Difficult Years

Part Two

New Life

8.   Big Break

9.   Saluki

10. Pilot Training

11. War

12. Vegas, Saigon, Diana

Part Three

Living the Dream

13. Absolution

14. Dream Realized

15. Cops and Robbers

16. White-Collar Crime and More

17. NFL, Motorcycles, Retirement

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Notes

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Ruth

Introduction

"You are not judged by the height you have risen, but from the depth you have climbed.

— Frederick Douglass, 1881

O n June 5, 1944—the day before D-Day—in Southern England, General George Patton spoke to his men of the U.S. Third Army. He finished with these words:

"There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you won’t have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, ‘Well, your Granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana.’ NO, SIR! You can look him in the eye and say, ‘Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Third Army and a son-of-a-g-d-damned-bitch named Georgie Patton!’"

Well, I didn’t serve in World War II and I didn’t achieve the heroics of the men of the Third Army, but I didn’t stay in Illinois and shovel shit, either.

My father beat the hell out of me when I was growing up. I was slightly built, self-conscious, and shy. In junior high, I was the target of bullies. In my large city high school, I made no friends, studied little, and barely graduated.

Outside school, I hung with a bad kid who showed up one day in my neighborhood. Together, we abused alcohol and made mischief. I came very close to committing a serious felony with him late one night.

After my misguided teen years, no colleges would accept me. I had no job. My father told me I had two weeks after graduation to get out of the house—but I had nowhere to go. The Vietnam War was looming. I was staring at the draft.

All I had was a dream: to become an FBI agent. And against the odds, I did what I set out to do—and then some.

Now, I’m retired and a grandfather. I’m filled with gratitude every day of my life. I’m grateful that every close call along the journey to reach my dream went my way. Had only one gone against me, I would have arrived in a much different place. As it turned out, I realized my dream career, and now I have stories to tell my grandchildren.

That’s what this book is about.

I’m grateful for Diana, my wife. Since we first met in 1968, she’s been by my side, every step of the way. Together, we’ve raised two loving children who grew up to lead lives of dignity and achievement. We’re grateful to our daughter and son-in-law who’ve blessed us with the precious gift of two grandsons. I’ve experienced no more exquisite pleasure than when they, as babies, fell asleep on my lap. We’re grateful to our son, who recently married a wonderful woman; they’ve given us hope for more grandchildren.

And that, too, is what this book is about.

This book is a love letter to my beloved grandchildren, and a gift for my beloved children, Dana and Darren. Herein is a mixture of remembered history and reminiscence, written from my perspective, in my voice.

Nothing in this book is invented. These are the facts as I remember them, and the emotions I felt. Where possible, I documented details. Even so, I’m sure this story is as fallible as any human memory.

PART ONE

Beginnings

ONE

Heritage

Die Morgenstunde hat Gold im Mund

— (German for The morning hour has gold in its mouth)

My grandmother, Hedwig Marting, whenever asked why she was an early riser.

M y earliest memory is of gazing out of the front window of my boyhood home in Springfield, Illinois. I watch men park their cars and carry their black lunch pails to work at Allis Chalmers, the big, heavy equipment factory a few blocks away. It’s a sunny spring morning. My mother is nearby. I see a young girl walking alone to the public school, which is located just around the corner. I ask my mother if I’ll have to walk to school alone. She reassures me that she’ll walk with me until I know the way and get to know my teacher and new school friends. Still, I’m terrified at the thought of leaving her protection and being on my own.

Then my mother pulls a cigarette out of the pack, strikes a match, and lights it. I’m mesmerized by the way the end of the cigarette glows as she draws on it. A plume of smoke wafts out of her mouth and nose. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’m four years old and I’ve never seen my mother smoke before.

I was born on October 24, 1943, in Lubbock, Texas. My father, Harold, was stationed there in the U.S. Army. My mother, Ruth, told me that my birth was the happiest day of my father’s life.

My father disliked names that spawned nicknames, such as Robert. One of his Army buddies had just named his new son Gary, and he was fond of the name. My middle name is Arthur, after my father’s youngest brother who died at seventeen of diabetes. My mother agreed to the names, probably because she had no say in the matter.

He was drafted into the Army in 1942 and went for basic training to Jefferson Barracks, Missouri. Upon arrival, he was given a physical exam to prepare him for training and his transfer to the World War II front. While cleaning out his ears, an Army medic accidentally ruptured my father’s eardrum, rendering him temporarily ineligible for combat.

In early March 1943, the Army transferred him to the Lubbock Army Airfield, where he was assigned to an administrative unit as a typist. He remained there until his discharge from the Army at the end of the war in 1945. My father later admitted to me that his eardrum had healed within a few weeks, but he had decided to keep that information to himself. He used to tell me that, if it weren’t for his busted eardrum, I would have never seen the light of the day.

My father was the second of eight children of Henry C. Marting and Hedwig Louise Marting. Henry’s parents were Anton Ludwig Marting and Elizabeth Sonneborn Marting. My great-grandfather Anton was born on March 10, 1845, in Grossherzogtum, a state in Germany on the east bank of the Rhine that existed between 1806 and 1918.

According to the Marting family history recorded by my Aunt Erna (my father’s oldest sister), Anton lost his parents early. At age fourteen, he went on ship duty for eight years, where he survived many storms. In 1869, he left the sea, traveled to America, and settled in Cook County, Illinois, near Chicago.

My great-grandmother, Elizabeth Sonneborn, crossed the Atlantic from Frankfort, Germany with her parents in 1870. They stayed for a short time in Ulna, Illinois, before moving to Chicago in 1871.

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At home in Lubbock, 1944

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With Mom and Dad, 1944

Anton and Elizabeth were married in Chicago on February 24, 1872. In 1874, they moved to Iowa, where they settled a family farm five miles northeast of the small town of Carroll. They became U.S. citizens in September 1876. Anton and Elizabeth lived on or near the farm until their deaths, at ages sixty-five and seventy-one, respectively.

My middle name, and the first name of my father’s brother, Arthur, came from the name of their youngest child, Immanuel Arthur Marting, who died at age twenty—suddenly and in great pain—of a ruptured appendix.

Anton and Elizabeth shared a strong religious faith. Though short of funds and needing assistance on the farm, they sacrificed much to allow their son Henry to prepare for the Lutheran ministry and always supported their church with generous gifts. When Anton’s health failed due to heart disease and death was imminent, his last words, while surrounded by his tearful family, were in German: Weint nicht, wie schon wird es im paradies sein, which in English means: Weep not, how nice it will be in paradise.

Known as Pop to his children and Papa to his grandchildren, my grandfather—Henry Conrad Marting—was born in Carroll, Iowa, on November 17, 1882. He graduated from Concordia Lutheran Seminary in Springfield, Illinois, in 1904 and worked as a Lutheran minister for more than fifty years. He pastored churches—all rural—at Downs and Herkimer, Kansas, and in Nebraska at Gladstone, Seward, and Davenport. His longest stint—1911 to 1931—was at Zion Lutheran Church in Herkimer where he and Hedwig, called Nannie by her grandchildren, raised their eight children.

Papa also taught all eight grades of the Lutheran elementary school in Herkimer, a town that boasted—in its heyday—fewer than three hundred people. The nearest high school was fifteen miles away at Marysville, Kansas, where my father graduated. At Downs and Herkimer, Henry conducted all church services in German. At the later parishes in Nebraska, he preached one service in German and another one in English.

Shortly after I was born, Papa baptized me in the living room of our home in Lubbock, Texas. Other than posing for photographs, that was probably the last time he laid hands on me. He had little interaction with his grandchildren.

Papa was a self-righteous man, full of himself and in complete charge of all his family’s affairs. I thought it strange that a man of faith, after services on Sunday morning, would sit on the front porch of the parsonage surrounded by family, smoke Crook cigars, drink Budweiser beer, and swear some (although he never took the Lord’s name in vain). He would pontificate about the ills of society—especially the Catholic Church. Other than in church, I never heard him discuss his faith.

On Saturday afternoons, his parishioners were required to announce—in person, to Papa—their intention to take communion on Sunday morning. This was no small feat, as most lived on farms a good ways down dirt roads. Individually, or as man and wife, they met Papa alone in his study where he held court, as my mother used to say. Often, his loud voice could be heard coming from the room. Old Mr. and Mrs. [so-and-so] are catching hell for something, Nannie would say.

One afternoon when I was eight, Papa was holding court with my dad, who had promised to hit fly balls to me when they finished. All the while they were in the study, I anxiously waited outside the door. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I peeked into the room and asked my dad when he was going to come outside. He fell silent. Suddenly, with a very loud, bellowing voice, Papa hollered, WE’RE TALKING! Stunned, I stumbled backward and ran away. Papa and I never spoke directly to one another again.

Papa retired from the ministry in 1952. He and Nannie moved into the home in Fairbury, Nebraska, that they had saved for a lifetime to afford.

Papa died of a stroke on August 6, 1962, at age seventy-nine, still heartbroken over the death of his wife the year before. He was home alone, tending to his garden.

My grandmother, Hedwig Louise Droste, was born on August 14, 1886, in Mt. Olive, Illinois, the second of nine children born to Fred and Johanna Droste.

Fred had been born in Hanover, Germany, in 1859. In 1880, he, along with his brother Hermann, came to America and settled in St. Louis, Missouri. After completing a two-year course in commercial bookkeeping, they moved to Mt. Olive, Illinois, and went into the mercantile, lumber, and flour mill business.

In 1885, Fred married Johanna Elizabeth Arkebaur, the eldest daughter of Meint Arkebaur, who, at the time, was the wealthiest farmer in Mt. Olive. The Arkebaurs had emigrated from Germany in the early 1850s. Fred and Johanna settled on the family farm, where they raised their five girls and four boys. Their youngest son, Fred, was my father’s favorite uncle. Their fourth child, Otto, would become owner and operator of Jagamon-Bode—a wholesale grocery warehouse in Springfield—and would be my father’s boss.

My great-uncle Fred and his wife Deana lived in Litchfield, Illinois, nine miles north of Mt. Olive, and forty-five miles south of Springfield. They were gracious, wonderful people and we visited them often. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Their son was killed in action in World War II, after single-handedly holding off and killing more than thirty German soldiers during an ambush. His heroic actions allowed members of his platoon to escape to safety before he was killed by enemy fire. Uncle Fred became president of Milnot Corporation—a national brand that produced evaporated, sweetened, and condensed milk in cans.

Nannie was a baptized, confirmed, and faithful member of Mt. Olive Lutheran Church. As a young woman, she cared for her mother, Johanna, who was ill for many years. After her mother’s death in 1908, she was in charge of the home and responsible for the young children in the household.

On or about February 1, 1907, my grandfather Henry conducted the funeral of Nannie’s grandfather, Meint Arkebaur, at Downs, Kansas, where he had died on January 31. Henry accompanied his body to Mt. Olive for burial and met Hedwig on the trip. They were married two years later at Mt. Olive Church on October 17, 1909.

Throughout my childhood, I observed the deep and abiding love Henry and Hedwig had for each other, even as they shared their continuing grief over the death of their fourth child, Arthur.

In the midst of all of the loud voices, spirited infighting, and much Marting family drama over the years, Nannie remained a sweet and loving grandmother and was adored by her fourteen grandchildren.

My father and my Uncle Bill Marting would tear up when they spoke of her as a remarkable mother, excellent seamstress, cook, and homemaker, accomplished at the piano, of a quiet and loveable disposition, and a perfect pastor’s wife. Her homemade ice cream, created from scratch with the cream of a freshly milked cow, was legendary.

Nannie died on June 26, 1961, from complications of heart disease after suffering from ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) for several years.

My mother’s side of the family completed my pure German pedigree. My maternal grandmother was Margaret Richter Boehner, born in Springfield, Illinois, on December 12, 1899. According to census records, her parents emigrated from Germany and settled in Springfield in 1895.

My maternal grandfather, Thomas August Boehner, was born in Springfield on August 27, 1898. His father, John Thomas Boehner, and mother, Emma Fetzer Boehner, were born in 1861 and 1865 respectively, also in Springfield. John’s father, Leonard, and mother, Emma, had been born in Germany. They emigrated and settled in Springfield in 1858.

Tom and Margaret had two children: their daughter was my mother, Ruth Evelyn, who was born in 1918. Their son, Thomas Edward, was born in 1922.

As the oldest of their five grandchildren, I had the honor of naming my grandparents. When I was asked, at less than one year of age, to say Grandma and Grandpa, the first sounds out of my mouth were Bom Mom and Kar Kow.

Kar Kow was about five feet, seven inches tall, slightly overweight, and full of piss and vinegar as my mother used to say. When I was a child, he would wrap his thumb and index finger around his wrist to point out to me where I got my small bone structure. Having skinny bones was nothing to worry about, he would say, and then point to his head and declare, It’s what’s up here that counts.

Kar Kow was a proud butcher by trade. He learned his craft from his father, John, who founded Boehner’s Meats in the mid-1880s. The Shop, as the family called it, was located in downtown Springfield, two blocks from the train station. He and Bom Mom left Springfield in 1917 and moved to Detroit for two years, during which time Kar Kow attended a business school. My mother, Ruth, was born there in 1918. Kar Kow took ownership of Boehner’s Meats in 1938 when his father died. Over the years, he expanded the business to include groceries and home delivery.

My grandfather loved everything about the meat business, especially his days at the slaughterhouse, where he would watch the cows and pigs he’d purchased as they were slain. Back at The Shop, he skillfully butchered the sides of beef and pork, either to deliver as ordered or to put on display in coolers in the front of the store. Kar Kow had a bone-deep belief in quality, and he was proud of the German-made butcher knives he’d inherited from his father. I marveled as he swiped both edges back and forth over leather straps at lightning speed and then showed off how easily each knife slipped through flesh. He wrapped the meat orders with white butcher paper and tied white string into a bowknot so quickly, his fingers were a blur. Always joyful, he whistled while he worked.

Over the years, when business was good, he purchased shares of Illinois Bell Telephone Company stock. According to my mother, he made a small fortune doing so. He was financially able to sell the shop and retire at age fifty-nine—a very early retirement in those days.

Kar Kow was never one to seek out a bargain. When he built his retirement home on a tranquil, two-acre lot on Lake Springfield, he used only the highest quality materials. He took great pleasure in showing off his copper wiring and three-quarter-inch copper water pipes. Always buy the best. It’ll save you money in the long run, he would say.

Kar Kow loved to take my brothers and me to Capitol Airport in Springfield. Standing on the observation deck, we watched the twin-engine DC-3s and four-engine DC-4s take off with a loud roar. He would point out that the radial piston engines of these aircraft were built by Rolls-Royce and were the best in the world. Years later, during bumpy rides through Southeast Asia in a DC-3—C-47 in the military—I took comfort knowing these solidly built aircraft were powered by what my grandfather believed to be the best engines ever made.

When he died in 1979 at age eighty-one, I asked for and received only one thing from his estate: his prized possession. It was a black, upright, Underwood typewriter, circa 1900. It sits proudly in my office at home now, a reminder of the many life lessons I learned from this fine man.

Bom Mom, my grandmother, was a quiet and loving person. A short lady, her salt-and-pepper hair was always rolled into a bun in public. When I was about seven years old, I asked her to show me how long her hair was. I was shocked to see it cascade down past her waist.

I found Bom Mom’s letters remarkable. Although she was forced to quit school after eighth grade to care for her family, she crafted wonderfully well-written letters, in perfect English, the words set down in her beautiful, Palmer Method handwriting.

Her heart was as beautiful as her penmanship. After disciplinary episodes with my father, she would wait until we were alone and then give me a hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay.

She suffered from hip pain as far back as I can remember. Even so, she wanted no part of a hip operation that, in those days, was considered almost barbaric. Kar Kow insisted she have the surgery, and she did. But afterwards, Bom Mom’s quality of life—especially her spirit—was never the same. She walked hunched over with the aid of a cane for the rest of her life.

During the summer of 1976, while Bom Mom was having increasing difficulty getting around, she and Kar Kow managed to drive from Springfield to Montgomery, Alabama, to see their two great-grandchildren, Dana and Darren, for the last time. They swelled with pride as they sat in lawn chairs and watched the kids romp around in our backyard. Kar Kow admired Darren’s straight as a board back, and said over and over again that Dana was the cutest and smartest little girl he had ever seen.

Kar Kow was devoted to Bom Mom and took loving care of her until he died. He had a stroke while sitting in his easy chair taking an afternoon nap on May 19, 1979. Contacted by a neighbor, their son Tom found Bom Mom late at night, still in bed, moaning, Tom, Tom … while Kar Kow lay dead in the living room. She was taken by ambulance to a hospital and, within a few days, to a nursing home.

Except on the very rare occasions when she was unable to do so, my mother visited Bom Mom for several hours every day for the rest of her life. I’ve never known another person so dedicated to her mother’s care and well-being.

Bom Mom died in the nursing home of congestive heart failure on April 27, 1983. She was eighty-three years old.

A month before he died in 1979, I received a phone call from Kar Kow. We talked mostly about Dana and Darren. Later in the conversation, he told me how delighted he was that we gave Darren the middle name of Thomas because now, a third generation Boehner would carry that name. Without thinking, I told him—truthfully—that Diana and I had chosen Thomas, not because of lineage, but because we liked the sound and cadence it added to Darren and Marting. As soon as I hung up, I realized my comment had been unnecessary and insensitive. But it was too late. To call him back and tell him otherwise, I decided, would sound phony. Unfortunately, it was the last time I spoke with him.

If given just one more do-over in my life, I would use it to right this wrong with Kar Kow. I’m remorseful about it to this day.

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My brothers and I with Nannie and Papa, Nebraska, 1955

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Bom Mom and Kar Kow with Dana, Montgomery, 1976

TWO

Family

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.

— George Burns

M y mother and father met in 1938 at Trinity Lutheran Church in Springfield, Illinois. It was altogether appropriate that they met at church, because my father would never have dated any woman—much less married her—who was not a Missouri Synod Lutheran. Papa would not have allowed it.

My mother, Ruth Evelyn Boehner, graduated from high school in June 1936 during the Great Depression. With jobs hard to find, she landed a clerkship with Illinois Bell Telephone Company and continued living with her parents and younger brother at home on Franklin Avenue. Her parents, although they were Lutheran by faith, were not active churchgoers. She joined Trinity—the largest Lutheran church in Springfield—because of its reputation for having active young adult social programs. And she hoped to find a good Christian man to marry.

Another victim of the Great Depression, my father, Harold Frederick Marting, was laid off at age twenty-two from his job as a meter reader and bill collector for the Kansas Power and Light Company in Marysville, Kansas, located just a few miles from his hometown of Herkimer. When he couldn’t find work locally, he moved to Springfield in 1922 on a promise of work from his mother’s brother, Otto Droste, to stock shelves in the wholesale grocery warehouse he owned. My dad carried with him to Springfield a letter of recommendation written by his former boss, the division auditor at the power company, stating that my father was dismissed due to no fault of his own, that he had displayed high character and honesty, and was a hard worker. He hoped this sterling reference would help him find a better job than stocking shelves.

After arriving by train, he moved into a rooming house on West Cook Street and launched into several unsuccessful days of job hunting. Finally, reluctantly, he began a twenty-five-year career at Jagamon-Bode under the watchful eye of Uncle Otto, a man he despised. He joined Trinity, and the church became the center of his religious and social life.

By all accounts, as soon as my parents met, they began a three-year courtship that was centered on the social activities of my father and his group of friends. These included his church bowling league, city league fast-pitch softball team, and frequent games of pinochle, my father’s favorite card game.

My father’s best friend since joining Trinity was Lou Klekamp, who was a committed bachelor, a beer drinker dedicated to the Schlitz brand, a cigar smoker, and an all-around hell-raiser. After marrying my mother, my dad settled into family life while Lou continued his party-hard ways. He showed up only occasionally at our house. I mostly remember that he made my father laugh when they talked about old times. For that I was grateful, because my father seldom laughed.

After my parents married, my mother took great pleasure in exclaiming, every time Lou’s name was brought up: The day your dad and I got married was the last of Lou Klekamp.

My dad’s other close friend was Walter Baepler, who with his wife, Martha, had four children. Twenty years older than my father, Dr. Baepler was a professor of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew at Concordia College in Edmonton, Alberta, and later at Concordia Theological Seminary in Springfield. His book, A Century of Grace: A History of the Missouri Synod, 1847 to 1947, was often referred to in my confirmation class. Dr. Beapler was a gracious and dignified man and I relished being in his presence.

Walt, as my dad called him, was installed as President of Concordia Seminary in 1953. I remember the lavish ceremony in his honor at Trinity including the wondrous, soaring music of the orchestra, which consisted of faculty members and students of the seminary accompanied by our church’s magnificent pipe organ, played by the principal of Trinity Lutheran School (and my eighth-grade teacher), Mr. Wittmer, an accomplished organist. I was so impressed by the academic regalia the participants wore. I wondered, How in the hell did my dad ever meet up with a guy like Walter Baepler? I’m sure Papa had something to do with it.

I’ll forever remember dinner in President Baepler’s stately home on the campus of Concordia Seminary when I was nine years old. Never before had I eaten in a dining room so elegant and beautiful. After Walt gave the blessing, I was passed a bowl