Whisper In My Ear Volume 1 of 3

By John Henry Hardy

It's the 1960s, and cultural and political unrest is sweeping across America. In the midst of this turmoil, three young Americans find themselves on a path that sends them to join the war effort in Vietnam; Dion Murphy, a handsome football player from Georgia; Cathy Addison, a pretty young nurse from Minnesota; and Norman Coddington, a young man

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Henry Hardy
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088268506

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

Copyright © 2015 John Henry Hardy

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781088268506

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900778

CHAPTER 1

Dion Murphy’s cleats were digging into the turf and his powerful legs propelling him toward the Engineers’ running back, when suddenly the big center slammed into him. The impact stopped his forward momentum, and both players went sprawling to the ground. Dion held the center’s head in a viselike grip under his left arm for a moment, and looked up at the referee. Amazingly, there wasn’t a flag on the play.

That should have cost them fifteen yards, he thought as he anxiously looked toward the goal line. The Dalton Polytechnic Engineers’ center had hit him before he could stop the ball carrier, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the runner had been tackled on the forty-five-yard line. He heard the roar of eight thousand Dalton fans as the referee signaled a first down. Dion stood up with his hands on his hips, listening to the jubilant crowd. The two-minute warning signal sounded, and the Engineers called a time out.

That was a foul by number eight, Coach John Frye shouted as he threaded his way between the players until he faced the referee: Spearing. That’s a fifteen-yard penalty and an automatic first down.

But the ref wouldn’t budge.

It’s a first down, Coach, the ref replied as he started toward the Bryant goal line. I didn’t see any spearing.

But Frye wouldn’t quit so easily and kept walking alongside the referee, shouting, This is a conference championship game, and it should have cost them fifteen yards!

No point in arguing any further, Coach, Dion thought.

The annual clash between these two schools had evolved into a classic Southern football rivalry, pitting the Dalton Polytechnic Institute’s Engineers of San Antonio against the Bryant Military Academy’s Rebels of Dallas. But this game was different because, for the first time in the history of either university, the winner would be crowned the Southwest Conference Football Champion.

Dion watched a few Engineers jostle one another, chest to chest, and heard the clacking sounds of helmet on helmet. He cast a furtive glance at several others who were high-fiving one another. Their fullback, Tim O’Neal, was performing absurd dancing antics on the gridiron turf and pointing toward the Rebels’ goal line.

Damn, Dion shouted to no one in particular, they got away with it! His neck warmed with a rising anger. Even though the scoreboard still read 21-20 in favor of his Rebel team, the Engineers had regained their momentum.

When he got down to the forty-five-yard line, the team’s doc asked him, Are you OK, Dion?

I’m fine, Doc, he mumbled as he turned away, clenching his teeth.

There was no way he was going to warm the bench after what had just happened. If they’re going to start playing dirty football, he seethed, then I’m going to make them pay dearly for every inch they gain!

As the doctor walked away, Dion tried to be as inconspicuous as possible when he lifted his left arm up and felt a burning sensation. It didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. Maybe the foul wasn’t deliberate, he thought, but he nearly cracked my ribs.

The ache was minuscule compared to the anger engulfing him. How could the ref not have seen the center use his helmet as a weapon? He was beginning to think this one official was favoring the Engineers while penalizing his Rebels for the slightest infraction, and it was getting his goat.

Favoritism was cheating, in his book, and he hated cheats since that kind of behavior contrasted so vehemently with the ideals his family held sacrosanct. Their ethos stemmed from a proud heritage adopted from Confederate General Leonidas Polk, a West Point graduate and Episcopalian bishop who was killed at Kennesaw Mountain during the War Between the States. When Dion’s ancestors of that time learned of the general’s fate, they converted from Catholicism to Episcopalianism, in tribute to his memory. What Sherman’s army did to the plantations of Southern families earned Sherman the everlasting enmity of every genteel Southerner. Sherman’s troops killed off their stock, burned and trampled their crops, and stole all the valuables before torching their gracious mansions. The women and children were terrorized and left destitute, while their slaves followed in the tracks of the Union juggernaut, proclaiming they were free at last.

So Dion Murphy had grown up learning about the exploits of Johnny Reb heroes and had come to despise those damned Yankees from up North. But even so, the name Murphy had appeared on the muster roles of every war since the American Revolution, and some of them had made the ultimate sacrifice. Most were West Point graduates who served in command billets, and Dion’s father, uncles, and cousins had landed at Normandy on D-Day and fought in the hedgerows in France before crossing the Rhine River into Germany during World War II. His dad also fought on the frozen tundra and the snowcapped mountains in a godforsaken land known as Korea.

Despite their distant missions, Georgia did not forget them, for the name Murphy was legendary there, and destiny dictated that Dion follow in their footsteps to West Point.

He tried.

Dion had kept up a concerted academic effort in high school while lettering in football and wrestling, and he’d graduated as valedictorian. Like his kin before him, he yearned to take his rightful place in the Long Gray Line, yet living the legend proved difficult.

He wasn’t accepted at the Point in 1961 or in 1962. There was no plausible explanation given, but he knew there were thousands of applicants, making admission extremely competitive, and there was the issue of the paucity of women and minorities in the academy’s ranks that gave them some advantage.

Dion was an only son, and it galled him to think he might not be lionized among the other heroes in the family’s lore. But time was running out, so he chose to attend Bryant Military Academy instead, confiding in the Rebels’ coach about his dream and his decision.

Within a few practice sessions, Coach John Frye knew the kid from Georgia was a talented freshman, and his drive and four years of high school football experience made him a solid candidate to fill a slot on the Rebels’ defensive line.

You know, Dion, Coach Frye told the budding freshman, you’re talented, and if you keep playing and working hard there might be a starting berth for you on the team this season. But I can’t work with you if you want to leave and play ball at West Point. I know military service is in your bloodline, but it just wouldn’t be fair to the team, to BMA, or to me. You’re going to have to make up your mind once and for all. He studied the youthful face for any adverse reaction or a hint of commitment, but the young Georgian only gazed back at the graying coach.

The first thing he mentioned was fairness, Dion was thinking, then the team and the university. He put his own feelings last. He thought how his words epitomized the values espoused by General MacArthur in his famous Duty, Honor, Country farewell speech at the Point. That said a lot about the coach and where his priorities lay. He could work his heart out for a man like him.

Now, Dion, I’m not trying to rush you to judgment, the coach continued. It’s a big decision. Take a week or two, and give it some real thought. Then let me know what you decide.

I don’t need a week, sir, Dion answered. I’ve been thinking about it ever since West Point turned me down the second time.

Do you really mean it? Coach Frye asked. Have you really thought it through? Understand me, Dion, I’m trying to build a solid team here and make BMA a football powerhouse, and if you remain here I’ll work with you and develop your talents further. With a lot of heart and hard work, it’s not inconceivable that you might have a shot at trying out for the pros someday. On the other hand, I know your family has a tradition of service at West Point and a lifetime of service to your country, which is a very honorable thing. No matter which school you choose, I know you’ll do well, but I hope you’ll stay here at Bryant.

I’ve decided I’ll stick with the Rebels no matter what happens, Coach, he immediately replied.

Dion was ingrained with Southern gentility, a plantation heritage fostered by the ideal that nothing was more sacred than your word. Your word was your honor as a man, and nothing was more sacred to a genteel Southerner than his honor; once you gave your word, it could never be retracted.

Dion extended his hand.

You have my word on it, Coach. I’ll stay with BMA, he said, knowing it meant he would never answer muster in the Long Gray Line.

It wasn’t an easy decision. Coach Frye didn’t reply; he just nodded his head. I’ve got his word on it, the coach thought. I’ve heard that one before. Yet there was something he liked about this big, clean-cut-looking kid with the closely cropped black hair, even though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it yet.

During the spring of his junior year, Dion got a letter from West Point, confirming his selection for the Class of 1968. Academically, he was well qualified and in excellent physical condition, so excelling at the academy would be a snap. And yet he knew he wasn’t their first choice. The academy was selecting him now because it couldn’t meet recruitment quotas. Since President Kennedy had begun sending military advisors and aid to an obscure country called South Vietnam, the applications to all the US military academies had dropped off sharply. Nonetheless, he felt the allure of what attending West Point meant to him, his family, and his country, and he harbored a burning desire to fulfill his destiny.

He exuberantly strolled into Coach Frye’s office, even though football season had not begun. Besides being the head football coach, Frye was also a professor of mathematics, and he harbored a keen interest in making certain his players maintained an acceptable academic standing and stayed in good physical condition during the off-season.

West Point Class of 1968, Dion chortled as he dropped the letter of acceptance on the coach’s desk.

The smile on Dion’s face was a mile wide.

John Frye glanced down at the letterhead. Ordinarily, he would start screaming about something like this, particularly in light of Dion’s promise to stay at Bryant and all the hours he’d spent coaching this kid. But over the last two seasons they had also become friends, and so at the moment the coach remained amazingly calm. He had known this could happen.

I feel vindicated, Dion continued. Now I can follow in my dad’s footsteps and those of my ancestors who are alumni of West Point.

His elation at realizing his dream was finally coming true was so overpowering that he had forgotten all about his promise to Coach Frye.

Yup, Dion, the choice is yours. You can stay at Bryant or you can attend West Point, the coach said. And I won’t hold you to your promise either.

His last remark astounded Dion. He had forgotten that he’d given his word he would stay with the Rebel team.

And, the coach continued, I know our country needs men like you during these unsettling times.

At that instant Frye’s stomach began churning. Frye couldn’t quite believe what he’d just blurted out. The patriotic tug on his heartstrings however, was stronger than he was willing to admit after serving in the army in Korea, and now seeing that it looked as though his country might be getting into another fight. A chill ran down his spine when he recalled the horrors of combat and the subzero temperatures he’d endured during the war. He couldn’t help but harbor a grudging respect for anyone willing to serve in the military during wartime.

By the end of his freshmen year, Dion had become a seasoned collegiate player and earned the starting berth as middle linebacker for that season. It was highly unusual, but he was good enough that if he transferred now there was no doubt he would also be a first-string player for the Cadets.

Coach Frye surprised himself when he extended his hand in congratulations, and yet he could not help feeling some resentment, even while playing a hunch.

Thanks, Coach, Dion said as they shook hands. He reached down to retrieve his letter, and when he looked back into Frye’s steely gray eyes, he remembered the coach had let him off the hook about keeping his word. He had to wonder, Am I really all I claim to be?

Frye was asking himself the same question about Dion, but instead of berating him and booting him out of his office, he kept quiet. He had taken this kid at his word, even though he had been burned in the past, and he was already scheming about who could possibly replace him—but no one else on the team could play middle linebacker as well as he did. Dion was one of the finest collegiate players he’d ever coached, a kid born with a killer instinct and an unquenchable desire to win.

Dion, too, began feeling uncertain.

He realized he was standing at the crossroads of character, and he was awed by how strong the temptation was to break his word now that he was holding his dream in his hand, a dream he had worked so long and so hard to fulfill. It was now within his grasp, and the thought and the thrill kept whirling about inside his head, despite the discomfort of his ethical dilemma.

He’d been raised with the notion that a man who wouldn’t keep his word could never claim to be an honorable man, no matter what. God knows how much I want to go to West Point, he anguished. That’s still my dream, and this is my chance to close ranks with the others in my family who served in the Long Gray Line, all of whom were bound together by honor.

But if he broke his word—his sacred trust—then he would be without honor. He thought about it for a long moment and decided he couldn’t dishonor himself or his family, nor could he live with what it would do to the team, BMA, and Coach Frye. Dion Murphy had given the coach his word, his sacred pledge—in fact, they’d shaken hands on it—and when a genteel Southerner gave his word and his hand to another, it sealed the deal forever.

Dion Murphy stood there, pondering his choices for a few moments longer, but in the end his honor won.

I made my decision when I gave you my word and my hand, Coach, Dion slowly and reluctantly replied as he swallowed hard. With a war looming in South Vietnam, he softly continued, enrollment is down at all the military academies; they need to fill the slots. I wasn’t their first choice even though I was well qualified, but I was your first choice because I’m a good ball player.

With those words, he slowly tore the appointment letter into several pieces and dropped them into the wastepaper basket next to the coach’s desk. Then he smiled slightly and turned on his heel and walked away before the coach could see the tears welling in his eyes. His lifelong sense of honor had entrapped him, but he had given his word, and he had to keep it intact.

When Dion left, John Frye laid his arms on his desk and rested his forehead on them, breathing a sigh of relief. He knew Dion desperately wanted to attend the United States Military Academy and how hard it must have been for him to keep his word, but now he knew what it was he liked about this kid from Georgia. Dion Murphy is an anachronism, he thought. He has a strong sense of honor.

This Southwest Conference Championship Game would be Dion’s final game at BMA. Dion sighed. A few years ago he had given up his dream of becoming a West Pointer because he had kept his word, and two years from now, he could have been commissioned a second lieutenant in the US Army, but instead, this year he was graduating from Bryant Military Academy with a bachelor of science degree in chemical engineering.

Dion kept gazing at the antics of the opposing team. Long ago his ancestors had been cheated out of their rights and property by Sherman’s army, and now the Engineers were trying to squash the legend he had become at Bryant. He couldn’t fulfill his dream of graduating from West Point because he had given his word, and so this conference championship game might be his sole claim to fame and glory in the family’s lore. Yes, his ancestors had suffered, but he was damned if the Engineers’ center -another Yankee - was going to thwart his only chance to fulfill the lesser part of his destiny. The hell you will, Dion thought as he clenched his teeth. It isn’t right, and it sure as hell isn’t fair! I will not be cheated again—not this time!

He had given to Bryant Military Academy what he would have given so faithfully and ferociously to the United States Military Academy: his absolute loyalty and the very best he could do academically, along with every ounce of courage and tenacity he could muster in the sports arena. These thoughts were still buzzing through his head when his reverie was interrupted by the cacophonous cheers, jeers, and foot stomping of the Dalton Polytechnic fans rising in harmony with the euphony of their marching band. They were celebrating a victory they had not yet won.

Suddenly the two-minute time-out was over.

In a resolute state of mind, Dion kept nervously flexing the muscles in his biceps and forearms. He always kept his body in superb physical condition, but his forearms had always been larger in proportion to his biceps. So, the more he worked on his biceps and triceps, the bigger his forearms grew in proportion.

You look like Popeye, one of his teammates had once said. Do you eat spinach too?

The team had laughed, and the name had stuck and become part of his legend at Bryant. Opposing players who berated his cherished sobriquet came to regret it when they met on the ball field.

Dion began feeling confident again. His team was still undefeated, and he had kept his word. His honor was intact, which meant he was a true Southern gentleman, and this instilled in him a fierce pride, a pride that caused him to emit a certain aura, an innate righteous indignation that could only be borne in the heart and soul of an honorable man. When he was right, he felt invincible because God was always on the side of the righteous.

The Engineers’ center was threatening his unrivaled record at Bryant, his sole contribution to the family’s lore—and what the referee had done by ignoring the offensive foul wasn’t fair either. Now it was up to an honorable man to make it right, and yet he knew righting a wrong, no matter how slight, could sometimes prove to be a monumental task.

Right makes might, he thought, not realizing he was paraphrasing some of the most famous words spoken by Abraham Lincoln, the Yankee president during the Civil War.

A grim determination seized his psyche. It wasn’t just a game anymore. The outcome was now a matter of honor. His blood was up, and his facial expression betrayed an aura of grit the team had dubbed the Popeye Express.

At the moment, his teammates weren’t quite sure who or what had pushed his hot button, but they could sense the train was on the track and ready to roll. When Doc Stedman passed Coach Frye on his way back to the sidelines, he murmured, I think your Popeye is just about ready to explode.

Coach Frye knew why.

He had come to know Dion well over the last few years. The kid was straight as an arrow and yet compassionate; he could tolerate an honest mistake. But if he detected the slightest hint of deceit, on or off the field, he would bring down the wrath of God upon you verbally or physically in the sports arena. It had to be that offensive foul, Frye thought. The doc’s remark was a good omen, but it would take luck and a superhuman effort to stop the exuberant momentum of the Engineers’ attack, and Frye’s confident expression belied the fiery sensation roaring in the pit of his belly. He had waited years for this day, a chance to win the Southwest Conference title, but his elation meant nothing unless the team stopped the Engineers from scoring and got the ball back. Then they could run out the clock.

Dion’s face felt hot. He was sweating, and his abs tightened again. Back at the line of scrimmage he stood directly behind the nose tackle and glared at the big Engineer center. Then Dion moved slightly to his right in case the center tried to bull his way past the nose tackle toward the strong side of their line. The instant he did, Dion would know one of their backs would be carrying the ball through the center and not around either flank.

He was a middle linebacker and played behind the line to stop anyone who broke through it, but if the opportunity presented itself, he would rush up to the line of scrimmage or through it to stop the running play or blitz the quarterback. Stopping a run around the flanks was the responsibility of the Sam or Will linebackers, the strong and weak sides, respectively.

But both teams had an idea what was coming. If the big Engineer center opened a breach in the center of the Rebel line, it was almost certain their back would rush through and maybe score. If it was a pass play, the center would help quell the blitz on the quarterback and allow him time to throw the ball. Either way, it boiled down to Dion successfully locking horns with the big center; no one else could do it.

Frank Gilliam, the Dalton center, had reason to be cocky. At six four, he was two inches taller than Dion and outweighed him by a good twenty pounds. There wasn’t much distance between them, and of course Frank Gilliam knew it was a pass play, but the Rebel linebacker was quick and agile, and if they were going to score or get another first down, he would have to take this Murphy kid out again before he could blitz the quarterback.

Frank Gilliam heard the quarterback’s Hut thirteen, twenty-seven, thirty-two, and he hiked the ball and became a sudden blur of motion. Dion dug his stallion-like legs into the turf to meet the challenge. Frank Gilliam brushed aside the Rebel nose guard and lunged at the middle linebacker, just as he’d planned. They slammed into one another just beyond the line of scrimmage, with helmet smashing against helmet. The clash and the impact sent aftershocks roaring through their brains like rolling thunder, and their arching backs and straining leg muscles kept pitting one titan against the other.

There were flashes of white lights inside their skulls and a feeling of twisting and turning as both men sucked in air and kept pushing with all their might. It felt as though Dion was shifting backward through space, until Frank Gilliam suddenly bent down and managed to grasp the Rebel linebacker around his legs. Then Dion sensed a falling sensation he couldn’t stop, and suddenly both men were lying on the ground again.

Frank Gilliam sat up. His huge chest was heaving, sucking in the wind the BMA linebacker had knocked out of him. He had never been hit like that—not when he played Pop Warner ball and not in high school or since he entered college, where he had added muscle and weight. My God, he thought, that was a punishing hit.

But he would never let the Reb know it, and he felt a twinge of fear when he thought he had failed. Then he noticed his BMA adversary had been slow to rise too, but was now back on his feet and rallying the Rebel line.

Frank Gilliam stood on wobbly legs and looked at the scoreboard. It was still 21–20 BMA, but their tight end had caught the ball and taken it down to the Bryant thirty-five yard line. It was another first down but a bit beyond their goal kicker’s range, unless he was having a very good day. The Engineer center heard the fans going wild, and by the time he got to the huddle he was feeling better.

Great play, Frank, the quarterback quipped. Can you take him out again?

Damned right I can, he retorted with renewed vigor.

Good. Valerian missed the extra point on the last conversion attempt and the coach wants us to get the ball in closer. All we need is a field goal. It’s first down. O’Neal is gonna run the ball, and we’ll double cover their safety. He’s quick, but we can take him. Let’s hustle. Time’s running out.

Across the line Dion Murphy watched the big center. He had gotten up slowly, but he recovered and was now cocky and confident again. What a hit, Dion thought, ignoring his labored breathing. The center had knocked him on his butt, and he’d seen stars and lights and gotten the wind knocked out of him. His legs still felt a little rubbery. It hurt, but he would never give that damned Yankee the satisfaction of knowing it.

There were four men on their line again, and the fifth man had moved over to their right wing. Another pass to the tight end on our Will side, Dion thought. That’s our weak side, so they might try it again. If it wasn’t for our safety they would have scored.

Reading the offense was the middle linebacker’s job. It looked like they might run the same play, or maybe their tight end, who was still moving toward the Will side, was supposed to dupe him into thinking it might be a pass play, and they were trying to suck him away from the center of the line.

He just didn’t know.

Maybe, he thought, the center is supposed to hit me again, and they’re going to hit our safety with the help of the tight end. Dion reluctantly stepped back one pace to give him more time to read the play and to maneuver. When the ball was snapped again and their quarterback turned sideways, Dion thought, They’re going to run the ball.

Running play, he signaled as he and Gilliam lurched forward at the same instant, their spikes throwing up blades of grass and churning the sod into shredded earth. The precious step he’d taken backward behind the line gave Dion momentum, and another heartbeat of time. Frank Gilliam committed first, flinging his 235 pounds squarely at the onrushing linebacker. But Dion stepped to the side, and stretching his left leg outward and extending his left arm almost straight behind him, he slammed his right forearm on the big center’s helmet, just as Gilliam’s muscular arms began clutching his right thigh in a vise-like grip.

Both men were going down just as the Engineers’ fullback came plowing across the line of scrimmage. Dion’s extended left arm came arcing around like a battering ram and struck the sprinting fullback across his midsection. At full stride, the two-hundred-pounder slammed into it, spewing air, saliva, and mucus from his mouth and nose as his abs and diaphragm absorbed the force of the blow. He tried to hold onto the ball with all his might, but the impact of the linebacker’s powerful forearm jellied his arms and legs. Everything turned black for an instant, and the ball popped loose and went careening toward the BMA goal line.

Dion knew he had made a solid hit and hung onto the fullback with his left arm, yet he didn’t know if O’Neal had coughed up the ball. But Frank Gilliam saw the loose ball and released his grip on Popeye. Propping himself up off the ground with both hands, he glanced toward the goal line.

Dion released his left arm from around the fullback and rolled over onto his stomach and then quickly stood up. Flailing arms and legs and withering torsos were still piling up, one upon the other, burying the man who had the ball beneath the human deluge. Both men bolted toward the end zone.

But who had possession?

The air was electrified with excitement.

This was the Southwest Conference Championship Game. There was still scuffling in the pile, when both teams emptied the benches. Coaches, assistant coaches, cheerleaders, and a host of Engineer and Rebel fans swarmed onto the field. Band members on both sides were so excited they began running down the sidelines toting their musical instruments, their shakos tilting backward as they ran. Then suddenly the horde stopped and gathered about the pile of players. There were still twenty seconds remaining on the clock when security began clearing the field. A breathless, anticipating silence pervaded the stadium as the refs began peeling away player after player.

On the bottom of the pile with the ball cradled in his gut lay BMA safety Milton Piotrowski of Camden, New Jersey. The fleet-footed sophomore safety barely heard Dion shout before he went dashing toward the center behind the line of scrimmage just as the ball came skidding across the turf. He had chased it, pounced on it, and held it with all his might.

Dion Murphy stood on the sidelines and watched the BMA quarterback merely drop to his knees and run out the few remaining seconds on the clock. The Engineers had gambled and lost, but even in his elation Dion felt a grudging respect for them. They should have tried a field goal from the thirty-five, he thought.

Among the massive swirl of fans and team members, he saw Coach Frye being doused with a bucket of water and never looking more jubilant. The team hoisted him up onto their shoulders and paraded him across the stadium. It was the first Southwest Conference Championship title for Bryant Military Academy in its twenty-five-year history.

Dion had made a great defensive play and knew it; he’d made the Engineers cough up the ball. It was a conference-winning, game-saving play, but the Rebel fans were swarming around their wide receiver Jerry Levias, who’d scored all three of the Rebel TDs. The team paraded him across the field on their shoulders in triumph, just as they had honored the coach. Their screams and cheers reverberated across the stadium, and right on their heels marched a triumphant Milton Piotrowski, holding the winning game ball above his head.

Milton’s elation was infectious.

His beaming grin, seeming to stretch from ear to ear, was encapsulated by his golden locks, which resembled a shimmering halo whenever his head was directly aligned with the fiery Texas sun. He would cherish the ball and the thrill of this moment for the rest of his life, Dion knew. His contribution to the victory was delighting the soul of the nineteen-year-old academic prodigy as surely as the sun was brightening the southwestern sky. It would be a lifelong memory for both of them, and Dion could not help getting caught up in the fervor.

Although he was a key player, Dion was never the star. The quarterback, the ball carriers, the wide receivers, or anyone who scored, always garnered the glory. The games usually ended the same for him, and yet he was always elated with a victory. Sometimes the anonymity made him feel special because people like him were part of an elite group, a breed of folks who comprised life’s unsung heroes who made things happen. Today’s victory was proof enough of that for him.

Yes, it was hard to believe Bryant Military Academy was the 1966 Southwest Conference Champion, and he’d played a key role in the victory.

It filled him with pride as he thought about his spectacular hit, and his chest swelled. This was his day too, and although he wasn’t being paraded around the stadium on anyone’s shoulders, he wasn’t going to let it spoil the feeling of glory he had in his heart. He made the best contribution he could to the family’s lore, and he would bask in the glory when he was alone since he wasn’t a braggart or a showoff.

But all too soon, his silent moment of glory began to fade as quickly as the desert sun, when the crowd began leaving to continue celebrating in the bistros and taverns in downtown Dallas. The stadium was growing quiet, and he silently thanked God for the victory as he walked back to the locker room. It was empty now, and yet it still reeked of sweat. He wrinkled his nose as he flipped on the exhaust fan and stepped into the shower, and as the hot water began cascading down his back and chest he felt the pain in his aching muscles and bruised ribs. For a moment he felt old, much older than his twenty-one years.

He stepped out of the shower and looked into the partially steamed-up mirror while drying his thick, neatly trimmed black hair, and his neck and torso. The image of his youthful countenance belied his maturity and firmness of character, which had always been his forte. His focus on schoolwork and assuming a lot of the responsibility of running the farm had accelerated his maturation. He identified more readily with the stability of the older generation than with the impetuosity of his peers. Of course, he never confided in his friends or acquaintances about how he felt, but it did sometimes cause him problems.

In Waycross, Georgia, his hometown, there weren’t a lot of girls in his age group, and many of his female high school classmates had steadies and married as soon as they graduated. Since Bryant was a military academy, most of the students were men, which caused Dion and his friends to seek out and date girls from other colleges.

Yet the girls in his age group acted so immature. Many of them were drawn to the drug culture that was rapidly spreading its ugly tentacles across America. They mocked the law and scoffed at the police who enforced it, looking upon all authority with contempt, even those on the faculty of their alma maters. They used terms like LSD, PCP, heroin, cocaine, amphetamines, and angel dust as casually as he spoke of cars, sex, and grades. They knew the risks associated with using drugs but continued to nonchalantly use them, which baffled him. There were trips to hospital emergency rooms and a few deaths due to overdoses. Venereal disease was becoming commonplace among them, and some refused to shave or wash their clothes or take a bath regularly—and more than a few of them smelled like it.

Their use of words was strange at times, and they painted their cars and vans with weird figures and color schemes and made a mockery of love by changing sex partners as readily as he changed his socks. Academically, some of them were among the worst of students, and yet others could boast of impressive collegiate achievements. However, many were just followers who imitated the behavior of their peers just to do the in thing.

It seemed to him as if they were driven by some inner desire to be noticed or to belong, that at first made him think they came from the lowest rung of the social ladder. Yet, over time he realized many were from prominent families, with parents who held responsible government or civilian positions. Some of their parents even seemed to give their stamp of approval to their offspring’s radical conduct.

The current social scenario made it difficult to meet a woman with whom he could identify and develop a meaningful relationship. He had infatuations, but he soon discovered many of those girls were also drawn to guys who were big on partying, which meant lots of drinking, and eventually many of them also began using drugs. Several of the coeds even told Dion they found his lifestyle boring, and their attitude and behavior destroyed the mysticism and chemistry he needed to nurture a close relationship. That was the void in his life; he couldn’t find a woman he loved who also shared his social values.

However, Dion was thankful he’d grown up in a small town like Waycross, where he learned to take solace in nature and where he and his dad spent innumerable hours fishing and hunting in the Waycross State Forest and the Okefenokee Swamp, a foreboding, desolate marshland of more than seven hundred square miles of water, sand, moss, and wildlife. As he continued to stare into the mirror, his thoughts regressed to another time and another world.

Once again, he remembered his father rowing their dinghy through the swampland, and how it silently and effortlessly glided over the brown-tinted pools and down the channels running beneath the branches of the bald cypress and giant tupelo trees festooned in Spanish moss. At times, floating peat-moss islets, known as hummocks, became so dense they stymied the movement of the skiff as it brushed against them. The hummocks were soft and spongy, and the Seminole Indians, who’d once inhabited this insidious wetland, had dubbed it the land of the trembling earth.

Dion could hear the twittering of more than a hundred species of birds and the calls of blue herons and sandhill cranes echoing above the incessant staccato of woodpeckers. All the species of this natural wonderland seemed to be lending their voices to nature’s chorus.

On the large sand islands, numerous pine trees and shrubs sheltered deer, bear, fox, and the playful otters romping on the shores among the radiant red, blue, and yellow hues of floating-heart lilies, maiden cane, and wild orchids of every imaginable color. Every now and then a fish would break the surface to snag a flying insect or small amphibian, and sometimes one of the hummocks would suddenly disintegrate. When the rotting peat moss got trapped below the newer growth above it, the pressure of the methane gas became so great that it burst through the upper layer with such force that it blew the floating islets to pieces.

Dion and his father were mesmerized by the colors and sounds of the swamp and the swirls and eddies the oars made as they went floating down the mahogany-tinged waterways. It was a beautiful place, but danger also lurked, since it was home to a variety of poisonous reptiles, including coral snakes and the aggressive cottonmouth. And kings and queens ruled this swampland, but they were not humans.

Just below the darkened waters, a massive, armored body moved stealthily through the stygian darkness as its long, slithery shadow glided swiftly and silently through the water in search of prey with nary a ripple to betray its presence. Its tail was a powerful propulsion system that could drive it through the water with more power and speed than any other creature on the North American continent, and its jaw muscles could exert a ton of pressure that crushed the bones of its prey, while rows of its snaggletooth fangs easily ripped off chunks of the victim’s flesh. Its size was deceiving, for the behemoth could grasp a victim with lightning speed.

Dion saw many alligators in the swamp, each with an average length of four to five feet, but this one was a monster, and its nearness jolted him from his reverie. He bolted upright, pointing in awe at the monster and looking down at his father.

Tom Murphy was bearing down on the oars when he heard a splash and snapped his head around just as the skiff was passing beneath a cypress limb and in time to see the bottoms of his son’s shoes disappear beneath the brackish water.

Instantaneously, Dion was in a world of numbing cold and total darkness, and he tried to scream when he felt a massive, powerful force suddenly clasp his shoulders and push him deeper into the murky abyss. Bubbles, not sounds, drifted toward the surface. The screams were in his mind only—he was trying to shout underwater, and in his attempt he kept gulping down mouthfuls of the murky liquid.

He knew he was going to be eaten alive, but he couldn’t feel any pain. He felt instead a powerful burst of energy and kept flailing his arms and thrashing his legs wildly about while a mortal terror engulfed his mind, blotting out any sense of logic or reason. In a moment, the killer would begin to violently shake and angrily twist him while tearing the flesh and limbs from his body. He fought ferociously, trying with all of his might to break the death grip, and swallowing so much swamp water he could feel it filling his stomach. He began coughing underwater to expel the rancid fluid now seeping into his lungs. But there was no air left to force the water out, and Dion Murphy knew he was drowning and would soon be dead as the monster dragged him deeper into the darkened chasm.

The struggle sapped all his strength. His body went limp as he surrendered to death, and yet his terrified mind never faltered as the force kept pushing him onward, until suddenly he felt a rising sensation, and an instant later he broke the surface and desperately gasped for air. He began choking as rancid brown water came bubbling out of his mouth. The powerful force kept pushing him forward until he hit the side of the boat. Clutching the gunwales, he cleared the edge and dropped into the bottom of the skiff. He was still coughing and desperately trying to scream, but he kept puking up water and vomiting wildly. Finally he could hear his own coughing and choking between his guttural attempts to scream.

The mortal terror never left him, and his intermittent shrieks began reverberating over the water and through the foliage before suddenly turning into pathetic gasping sounds. The skiff suddenly tipped precariously to the side, and a huge hulking form with a gruesomely shaped head tried to scramble aboard. It kept thrashing savagely about, churning up large frothy ripples and plant debris as it clung to the gunwales. Water began pouring into the boat. The skiff was on the verge of turning over.

From somewhere outside his terror, he watched as the creature slid aboard, alternately wheezing and sucking in the life-giving air and spewing out a murky liquid mixed with vomit. The boat kept rocking from side to side in rhythm with the foamy waves made by the huge gator, and the water inside the boat sloshed back and forth until the motion began to finally subside. But even so, Dion tried to scream again, but instead started puking up more of the brackish water and vomit until finally, the boat stopped rocking completely and everything became deathly still.

He was horrified, but he dared not move. Yet his renewed coughing and puking gave away his presence to the monster lying on the bottom of the skiff. As he stared at it he gradually processed the thought, My God, it isn’t the huge alligator! It’s a man! It’s Dad!

CHAPTER 2

Dion’s father had been injured by the alligator, and his shirt and trousers were darkened by the tinted water, giving his clothing a color similar to that of the Swamp King. The bill of his cap had water dripping from the brim, and long strands of green algae and decaying vegetation clung to his hat and hung down to his shoulders, partially obscuring his face, neck, and ears, giving his head the look of some prehistoric creature.

Dion stopped screaming, but the terror persisted. It was an absolute nightmare, so horrible that it seemed unreal. This couldn’t be happening—not to them. They were a good family and were always so careful.

He could now make out his father’s ashen face as he brushed away the algae, and for the first time ever, he saw fear in his father’s eyes. When his dad slowly reached out to make sure his son wasn’t hurt, twelve-year-old Dion started screaming again. His spasms only brought on more bouts of gagging and puking; he was still scared out of his wits, and yet he couldn’t feel any pain or see any blood on his wet clothing.

The boat continued to slowly drift downstream, and Dion finally calmed down enough to stop shouting. He fearfully peered over the side of the boat. Several yards away he spotted a pair of haunting yellow orbs protruding just above the surface. The huge gator had heard the splash Dion made when the branch knocked him overboard, and it immediately returned to the origin of the sound for a quick meal. This was its world, and here the gator—and not man—ruled the swamp and all its teeming life. Moments later those fearsome eyes sank into the murky water and vanished from view, intent on finding another victim.

Dion just sat there for a long time, numbed by their near-death encounter with the Swamp King. His father reached out to help keep him from shivering and shaking. Finally Dion mustered the courage to blurt out, Da…Da…Dad, how come it didn’t kill us?

Tom Murphy saw his son’s lips turn blue in spite of the warm summer day as he sat shivering from the cold and fear.

By the mercy of God, son, and because I knew the alligator would go back to the very spot where he heard the noise.

There was a silence.

That’s why I pushed you down underneath the boat, he laboriously said. So we could come up on the other side. It bought us time, but almost not enough time.

Then his father puked again.

Dion raised his head and looked down at his dad.

What…do you mean…almost not enough time, Da…Da…Dad?

His voice shook uncontrollably, and when he looked away and then down again, the horror returned.

His father’s left leg was missing.

Your leg is gone, your leg is gone! Dion shrieked. He pointed toward the bottom of the boat and turned away. It was too horrible to look at; the sight sent shudders wracking through his body again, and once more horrible, ghastly thoughts went racing through his mind. What petrified him most was not his father’s missing leg. He did not know how he felt about having a father with only one leg. He had never seen him with only one leg.

My leg is not gone. My—leg—is—not—gone, Tom Murphy assured him over and over, while grasping the terror-stricken boy’s knee from his supine position and shaking it as hard as he dared. It’s only injured.

More painful than his horror and his screams was the power of his father’s fingers digging into his flesh as he shook him, hoping his words would slowly diminish his son’s terror. But now his father’s voice began fading, sounding as though he were slowly drifting away. Gradually, Dion’s initial horror at the sight of the missing leg subsided.

He began to believe him.

Courageously, through tearful eyes, Dion looked down again. The left trouser leg was completely missing from the knee on down except for a few strands of narrow cloth and threads. His shoe and sock were gone too, but he was relieved to see his father’s foot. His calf muscle was ripped open along its length in several places, and the torn flesh was hanging limply toward the sides. He could see a long narrow white line he somehow knew was a leg bone.

Then he noticed his father’s blood. It seemed to be everywhere. It was on the side of the boat where his father hastily slid aboard and on the middle seat. The tinted water on the bottom of the boat was turning darker as his blood continued mixing with it. Dion heard the buzzing of flies, and in his terror he watched his father roll onto his right side and tie a wet handkerchief around the thigh. Dion was glad he didn’t have to do it because his hands were shaking so badly.

Dion, his father’s voice was but a whisper now. You are going to have to be very brave. His dad was mumbling between bouts of spitting up the brackish water, and yet he was able to notice the youth’s puzzled and frightened expression. You have to row us back to the dock and get me into the truck.

Now a new numbing sensation began to replace his old fright, and Dion suddenly felt nauseated again, not just from the copious water he had swallowed but also from the fear.

Home. How are we going to get home? he wondered. And who is going to drive the truck? He had been so upset and thankful to be alive that he hadn’t thought about how they were going to get out of the swamp.

I can’t row the boat, Dion, his dad said. You’ll have to do it. If you don’t, we’ll both die before they find us.

Dion wondered who the they were, but he didn’t ask. To a twelve-year-old boy weighing barely ninety pounds the oars looked massive and ominous; it was a daunting task. He’d never rowed the boat other than trying to a year before when he was eleven. It had been too hard even though the boat was slowly drifting with the slow-moving current. At the time, he just wasn’t strong enough, and now he would have to row against the current.

I don’t know which way to go, Dad, he answered feebly, hoping his dad would sit up. That would make him feel safer.

But he didn’t.

I’ll show you the way, Dion. His voice trailed off. I’ll show you as much as I can. Look for the osprey nests in the trees. Remember? Not much daylight left. His voice was fading.

Dion felt the pressure; he didn’t want to stay in the swamp at night, especially not after what had happened. Time was running out, but he didn’t do anything. There were times in the past when his dad had staged things just to see what Dion’s reaction would be in an emergency. Then he would explain what he had done right or wrong in any given situation, but today was not a learning session; his father wasn’t pretending. For the first time ever, fate had put him in charge and he didn’t know what to do. The fear stymied him. He had no real concept as to the extent of his father’s injuries, and the amount of his blood loss held no real meaning for him either. His dad was always so strong and independent, and Dion had never seen something his father couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Suddenly the thought of having to be the one to row the boat was terribly frightening.

"I can’t