Hell Freezes Over
Part One
February 1963-February 1964
Tatalina
I had no idea what to expect as I sat shivering on the pick-up truck’s blue vinyl bench seat on my way to Tatalina’s Air Station’s main administrative building.
My already seedy uniform had suffered its final indignity when I had fallen backwards into the snowbank at the edge of the runway, as I tried to retrieve my duffle bag from the bush pilot’s plane.
My pants were soaked up to my knees and the inside of my shoes squished as I vainly tried to warm my nearly frostbitten toes by vigorously rubbing them against each other. All that accomplished was to give me a painful case of toe cramps. I could feel the moist cold seeping into the back of my shirt from the soaking my jacket had sustained as I struggled to extricate myself from the slushy snow when I fell.
The radio on the pickup truck was blaring some country song that had the sergeant pounding his left foot to the twangy beat. He wore the rank of Staff Sergeant and looked to be in his early thirties. His straight dark blond hair, combed up into a giant pompadour, then falling raggedly over the top of his ears, was longer than any I’d seen since I’d joined the military. His eyes, framed by a pair of deep-seated sets of crow’s feet, contradicted his otherwise boyish facial features; and his lips seemed to be locked into a perpetual smile.
Even though my nose was running because of the frigid air, every time I sniffed back a dribble of mucous, I inadvertently inhaled what seemed to be a definite aroma of alcohol coming from Sergeant Billy Bob. Since I didn’t have a handkerchief, and the chance of finding a box of Kleenex in the glove compartment of the truck was thin to non-existent, I wiped my chapped nose of the sleeve of my uniform jacket.
“Colder’n a witch’s tit, eh?” Billy Bob said cheerfully, shoving the floor shifter into gear.
“Uh, yeah…sure is.” I answered with some hesitation; and being the first time I’d ever heard this quaint colloquialism my mind quickly conjured up a mental picture of what that must look like.
“Shit boy, what you need a slug of this! For sure this’ll warm you up fast!” He said, pulling a pint bottle of whiskey with his right hand from its hiding place between his lower back and the pick-up’s bench seat.
His unexpected offer shocked me so that I just sat there staring at the flat glass bottle, its amber contents sloshing merrily with every rise and dip in the snow-covered road. There was a picture of a turkey on the bottle’s white label.
“No thanks.” I finally said. “I’m good. I just need to get out of these wet clothes and I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself!” He said, as he let go of the steering wheel and uncapped the bottle with his left hand. “Here’s to what ails ya!” And with that he tipped the bottle up to his mouth and took three giant and noisy swallows.
As he spun the cap onto the neck of the bottle his face instantly flushed and he squeezed his eyes tight. Then, shaking his head violently as he sought to return the half-empty bottle to its hiding place he said with a shudder, “Fuck! That shit’ll kill ya!” His voice wheezed the words out. “And no telling what it’s doing to my fucking ulcers!” A clump of hair, dislodged from his prominent pompadour swung down between his eyes.
Ulcers? I thought.
“You got ulcers?” I asked, a little shocked and a lot curious.
“Oh, shit yeah.” He said, his voice straining and the redness starting to drain from his face. “But I didn’t tell anyone when I got this remote assignment ‘cause then the docs wouldn’t have let me come up here. They would’a put my ass in the infirmary, and you know, I’d probably still be there.”
“You…you actually wanted to come up here?” I asked, incredulously.
“Oh shit yeah! See, my old lady found out I was screwing some broad back in North Carolina at the base where I was at, and after she threw a shit-fit, she said she was gonna divorce my ass. But, she was just pissed off, you know and probably didn’t mean it. But I figured if I stayed, one of her fucking girl-friends would’a convinced her to divorce me just for spite. Then she for sure would’a taken everything I had…including my two kids. But, this here being a remote assignment, and all…well, she couldn’t do that, could she? At least not until I get home later on this year. But by then she’ll have gotten over it. Yes siree!”
We bounced over a few bumps on the snow covered road and he flicked the clump of unruly hair off his forehead and back onto its place on his impressive pompadour.
I didn’t know what to say in response, so I just sat there looking at the rugged landscape.
“You got a wife?” He asked, the sweet aroma of whiskey now strong in the cabin.
“Yup.”
“Kids?”
“Yeah, one five months old, and another on the way.”
“What? Another one? Due when?”
“Well, we think it’s gonna be sometime in August.”
“Shit man, you didn’t wait too long to get back in the saddle after that first one, did you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, it sucks that your second kid’ll be born while you’re up here.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No sweat! Before you know it you’ll be back in the lower forty-eight—plunking your wife for number three!” He let out a hardy laugh that ended up in a protracted coughing fit.
“You OK?” I asked, a little concerned.
He coughed a few more times and finally cleared his throat noisily. “Yeah,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then looking at it carefully. “As long as there’s no blood I’m all aces!”
***
After arriving at the station’s administrative building, Billy Bob waited until I got my duffle bag out of the pick-up truck’s bed before taking off—tires spinning noisily on the black ice built up on the little circular drive.
Walking carefully in my leather-soled dress shoes I pushed open the heavy insulated door marked, ‘Orderly Room’ and dragged my duffle in behind me.
I was introduced to the base commander, Major Rusk, and his executive officer, Lieutenant James, and was asked to sign several official forms making me a permanent member of the Tatalina Air Force Station for the next year.
Once I was done with the forms, the commander’s administrative assistant, a rather old looking Airman 2nd Class (E-2), escorted me to the dorm wing where I’d be housed.
The buildings at Tatalina were laid out roughly resembling a large spoked wheel, with the administration building serving as the center hub. The buildings containing the two-man rooms, showers and latrines; kitchen and chow hall; library; recreation room and movie theater; a club; and several classified communications rooms extended outward from the center hub. At the end of one of the spokes was the large dark operations room where I’d be performing my assigned duty: the Radar Tracking Control Room.
All the individual buildings were interconnected with one another by narrow hallways that eliminated the need for one to have to go back to the center, the administration building, to proceed outward to another building. These narrow hallways were windowless and were lined with banks of heavy duty steam heaters. This peculiar arrangement made it possible for one to never have to go outdoors for anything. You could go to work, eat your meals, play pool, read books, and watch movies all within the confines of the base, never having to set foot outside. There was even a garage that housed the various vehicles used to transport material and personnel to and from McGrath, and other locations. In all, the complement of assigned personnel at the radar station numbered around a hundred.
Besides pickup trucks, there were three fully treaded snow vehicles (snow cats) that could be used to ferry supplies and/or personnel to or from the small landing strip about a mile away. During the sub-zero winter months they were also used as rescue vehicles to find and transport lost local hunters back to McGrath, and a few drunk airmen back to our base. During my year at the base, two of our airmen, after spending a few hours drinking at our club, decided they wanted to explore the wilderness around the base and were never seen or heard from again.
Once a month an Air Force C-123 from Elmendorf Air Force Base would fly in food and supplies, the latest magazines and books, new movies in actual 35mm film cans, and replacement uniforms. Usually a caravan of blue pickup truck would be sent out, but when the weather was bad the snow cats would be powered up for the trip to the landing strip to haul back the supplies on sledded wooden pallets.
It took me a few weeks to learn to navigate the various hallways in order to find my way to any of my desired destinations. More than once I lost my way in the dimly-lit halls, finally deciding to retrace my steps and start all over again. There were signs posted on the walls with arrows pointing to the various destinations, but I soon found out that a favorite past-time of some of the longtime residents was to switch around the signs and watch the confused new arrivals wander aimlessly up and down the narrow hallways. I learned to watch for particular markings on the walls or on the floor or look for peculiarities in certain steam radiators, and memorize them as waypoints rather than depend on the ever-changing signs.
It felt wonderful to finally get to my assigned two-man room, undress, and take my first real shower in several days. Returning to my nine-by-twelve foot room I changed into fresh boxers and began to unpack my duffle bag. As I put my underwear into the drawers in the small metal dresser and hung my wrinkled uniforms on the pipe suspended from the ceiling, I wondered who my roommate was going to be.
The two beds were positioned on opposite sides of the long and narrow room with a writing table and chair set between them against the back wall and under a large, heavily shaded window. Both beds had sheets, blankets, and pillows stacked at the foot of the mattress so after my shower I made up my bed to the finest military standards. It had been a while since I’d done this.
I was pleased to see that my room was situated close to the latrine and the shower room, making getting ready for those early morning shifts a bit more convenient, and it was also within reasonable walking distance to the recreation room and library. Further away, and off another set of hallways was the chow hall and the Officers’ Club.
After unpacking I found that unless I sat on the one chair in the room there was nowhere else to stretch out and relax. So, as much as I hated to, I threw myself down on my freshly made bed and curled up to take a well-deserved nap.
I was just beginning to doze off when the door to my room opened and Tommy Sanchez walked in. Of course! I thought. He was due in on the same day as I so it made sense that we’d be housed together.
“Hi roomie!” He said, as he slung his duffle bag next to the other bed. “I guess we’re going to be spending a lot of time together for the next twelve months.”
I got up and greeted him with a handshake. “Hope your trip went a little better than mine.”
He told me that he’d flown from San Antonio to Seattle and caught a cab to McChord.
“Wow! That must’ve cost quite a bit.” I said, a little envious.
“Yeah, well my folks gave me some money ‘cause they didn’t want me to ride a bus all the way. I ended up having more than enough for the cab ride to McChord.”
“Did you catch another flight from McChord to Elmendorf?” I asked.
“Another flight?” He said, looking at me curiously. “We were on the same flight! Didn’t you see me?”
That threw me for a loop. “No! Not at all! Seriously? We were on the same airplane?”
“Yeah! But I was about seven or eight rows behind you. I tried to say hi when I got on the airplane, but you were busy looking out the window.”
“Why didn’t I see you in the terminal when we landed?”
“I don’t know. I looked for you but I couldn’t find you either. I figured you were pissed off at me for some reason and didn’t want to be found.”
“What? Why would I be pissed off at you?”
“Well, when you guys dropped me off at my house, you just drove off and didn’t even come in to meet my folks.”
“Tommy!” I said, a bit irritated. “We waited for you to come back out but you closed the door, so we left. And, yeah! We are a bit pissed.”
“So you’re still upset?”
“No man! That’s water under the bridge. So, don’t tell me you were you on the same flight with me to McGrath?”
“No. By the time I checked in I was told that the flight was oversold and that I’d have to wait for this one to dump its load at McGrath and then fly back. But I saw you get on the plane though.”
“I can’t believe they actually had two flights to McGrath on the same day.”
“Well, did you see the shit-load of Eskimos on your airplane?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, after your flight left I found out that the whole bunch had been at some tribal celebration in Anchorage, and now they were all headed back. At least that’s what the chick at the counter told me. She said they do it once a year so it’s happened before. I didn’t care since I wasn’t that anxious to get here too early, so I just settled in and took a nap. I couldn’t sleep on that other plane because of the bumps.”
“Oh, yeah. That scared the crap outta me. Anyway, when you got to McGrath did that guy in the red plane fly you here?”
“Yeah, he told me he’d just flown another guy up to the radar site, so I figured it was you.”
“Did Sergeant Billy Bob pick you up and drive you here?”
“Yep. That guy’s weird, and a fucking drunk to boot.”
“Well, anyway—looks like we made it, and we’re here for another eleven months and twenty-nine days.”
“Right! But who’s counting?”
***
Although Tommy and I were doing the same job, and shared the same room, we were put on opposite shifts. While we occasionally shared one of our off days, we rarely saw each other when one of us was on shift. We worked twelve hour shifts, six days a week: two 12pm-12am; two 6am-6pm; and, two 8pm-8am; followed by three days off.
Our facility was one of the last old style radar tracking sites left in the Air Force. The radar antennas feeding data to our scopes were located at various strategic sites around the state—their data-filled signals transmitted to our station via microwave. The control room, its walls painted a dull black, was sound-proofed and insulated. It was about forty feet square, and its main floor, where the surveillance radar scopes were located, was sunken down to about ten feet deep.
On one end there was a high observation dais, peppered with phones of differing colors and low intensity lights, where the shift commander and his assistants sat. Facing the dais on the opposite side of the room was a large three piece transparent Plexiglas board on which was depicted the state outline, airways, and our Air Defense Zone, and fighter and bomber bases. Behind the Plexiglas were three to four airmen called plotters, who when given aircraft target coordinates through their radio headsets from one of the six radar scope operators situated in a pit between the board and the dais, would manually plot their positions, direction of flight, and speed with colored grease pencils on the board. Orange depicted an unknown or unidentified target, yellow was pending, and green was identified and friendly. Red, which we saw only rarely, was deemed as a possible hostile.
When a new target went up on the board, one of the watch commander’s assistants, who was in constant communication with the Command Center at Elmendorf Air Force Base, would relay the location, altitude, speed, and direction of the new track. The Command Center would compare the data with known air carrier and military flight plans and correlate the target with that data. If properly identified that information was given to the assistant who would then relay the target classification to the plotter. The plotter would then change the target’s orange color to green. If the target was not identified within a couple of minutes, for any reason, fighter jets would be dispatched from Fairbanks or Anchorage to engage and identify the target. If deemed hostile it would be destroyed by order of the watch commander. Thankfully, that had never happened.
To enable the watch commanders to read and make decisions based on the information going up on the board, the plotters behind the board were required to write everything backwards. Each plotter had to have an appropriate set of grease pencils in one hand while writing backwards with the other. Plotting mistakes or old terminated tracks were erased with a square piece of felt cloth wrapped around one’s writing hand. The other hand manipulated the receive/transmit button on the headset.
The great majority of the tracks originated within the state of Alaska and were classified quickly and routinely. However, occasionally, our Russian friends would send their lumbering bombers east over the Bering Sea towards the western peninsula of Alaska, and our ADIZ (Air Defense Identification Zone), to probe and test our air defense reflexes. During these little bouts of daring Russian gamesmanship the tensions would rise considerably in our Control Room as we sent waves of fighter jets from our bases in Fairbanks and Anchorage, only to see the Russians turn their bombers away just short of penetrating our airspace.
Our twelve hour work shifts were split by working three hours behind the display board, three hours on the radar transmitting target positions, three hours on the dais assisting the watch commanders, and three hours on meals and rest breaks. We actually rotated our positions every hour, helping us avoid the fatigue that would occur having to work on any one position for three hours straight.
It was mostly monotonous work, but with the regular position rotation the twelve hour day seemed to pass fairly rapidly, with only small spots of boredom here and there.
But, it was not what happened when I was at work that ended up impacting my life so severely, it was what I did during those periods of time when I was off work that ended up causing me great and lasting harm.
Frenchy
The first two weeks of my year-long stay at Tatalina were spent familiarizing myself with the station’s physical layout, learning to perform my new duties, and getting acquainted with my fellow workers.
For the most part the guys I worked with were a friendly and humorous group. Those of us who still had many months left in our year-long tour of duty had to put up with the constant and sometimes obscene harassment from those who had but a few months, weeks, or even days left on Tatalina—the so-called “short-timers”.
On a daily basis we were subjected to, and had to tolerate, taunts such as: “If I had your departure date I’d just go ahead and kill myself now…”; “Hey rookie, I hear you’re still crapping stateside turds…”; “I’m so damn short I can walk into my room right under the closed door…”; “I’m so short I’m not allowed to have more than a three word conversation with anyone…”; and the all-time favorite, usually yelled out as a toast while celebrating at the Officers’ Club—and the one that the long-timers couldn’t wait to yell out themselves: “FIGMO!!” (Fuck It, Got My Orders).
About a month after arriving I swung by the tiny post office to check my mail box. Although our supplies were flown in once a month the mail came in on the daily commuter flight to McGrath from Anchorage. It was then flown in to our station by the same bush pilot who flew me in, then picked up by Billy Bob or some other sergeant. This in itself was quite a feat since the weather at our remote location was not always the best. But in the year that I spent there I can’t recall a day when the mail didn’t make it to us.
Looking at my glassed-in mail slot I saw that this would be another day with no letter from Sharon. I had already written several letters to her, the first a few days after I’d arrived, but had yet to get one in return. The first letter that I’d received was from my mother—that one arriving before I’d had a chance to write her for the first time. I recall being happy when I saw the white envelope resting diagonally in the box, then a little disappointed and sad when I saw that it wasn’t from my wife.
As I was leaving I ran into one of my crew-mates as he was coming in to check his mail.
“Hey Frenchy.” I said. He was the LeBlanc family’s youngest son and hailed from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Although his name was Robbie, he preferred to be called “Frenchy”.
If you asked him, or even if you didn’t, he’d tell you that Baton Rouge meant ‘red stick’, and not all ‘lewziannans’ were coon-asses. Pasty-faced, and a little chubby, he always seemed to be on the verge of laughing. A bit too effeminate in his mannerisms, I’d been warned by some of my co-workers to keep my distance because he seemed a little ‘queer’. ‘Gay’ still meant happy in those days.
“What’s up man? No mail for you today?” He asked, peeking into his slot.
“Naw…maybe tomorrow.”
“Yeah…well, me neither. But I really didn’t expect one today since I got one yesterday from my maw-maw.” (Yes, he always said ‘maw-maw’).
“Yeah? That’s cool.”
“How’re things at home?” He asked.
“Don’t know—at least from my wife’s point of view. I haven’t heard from her, but I did get a letter from my mom last week, and she says things are OK.”
“So you haven’t gotten any letters from your wife yet?”
“Nope.”
“Shit man. That sucks. You have written her, right?”
“Yup. A couple of times.”
“Aw. Well maybe the letters got hung up at McChord. I know a couple of guys here that didn’t get any mail for a month or so, and when they complained they found that some mail-puke at McChord had routed them to Barrow (another even more remote radar site in Alaska) instead of Tatalina. They ended up getting four or five letters all at once.”
“Yeah…well, maybe.” I said, not really wanting to talk about this anymore. “So, heading back to your room?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Well, I was actually headed to the club. How about you?”
“Naw, going back to my room.” I said, not really knowing if that’s where I really was heading.
“Look,” he said. “Why don’t you come up to the club with me?” (There was that winning smile). My masculinity antenna went up. “Well, uh, no thanks. I haven’t gotten paid yet, so I don’t have any money.”
“Shit man, no sweat! You can buy stuff in there on credit.”
“What? On credit?”
“Sure. Look, everyone knows that we all get here with very little money…and with the first payday usually delayed a month or so, the club just runs a tab. When you get paid you just go in there and settle up. It’s not like they don’t fucking know where to find you.”
“Really?”
“Sure man! Come on, let’s go drown our sorrows in a little booze.”
I thought about it for a few seconds, and after deciding that Frenchy wasn’t going to be a threat, I said, “Sure, why not”.
***
From the mail room it was a short walk to the club, via one of those winding, and oddly eerie, hallways. Just before reaching the heavy fire doors that sealed each end of the hall I began to hear music.
“Sounds like the place is hopping already.” Frenchy said, pulling the heavy doors open.
A short turn to the right and we walked through an open door into the Tatalina Officers’ Club.
It wasn’t really hopping—it was that the juke box’s volume had been turned up to almost eardrum piercing levels.
“Shit!” Frenchy said, cupping his ears. “Someone must’ve gotten a “Dear John” letter, or something.” A “Dear John” was usually a letter notifying its recipient that the sending party no longer wanted to maintain their relationship. They were common and usually arrived right around the recipient’s sixth or seventh month.
The club consisted of two large rooms separated by half a wall. The first room was large, well-lit, and furnished with five or six empty four-chair wooden tables. On one wall were a couple of mounted moose heads, a bear head, and a deer head. Hanging on the opposite wall someone had spent a lot of time creating a bust of what appeared to be a cross-eyed, buck-toothed, Eskimo female wearing an oversized Russian fur cap, and little else. Draped across her oversized breasts was a white banner that read, “Miss Tatalina”. The juke box was situated directly beneath her.
The bar was located in the next room just past the wall, and was dimly lit. It was pretty much square with stools all around its perimeter. In the center was a veritable pyramid of glass liquor bottles with booze from practically every country in the world.
The bar was tended by senior sergeants, who were probably teetotalers since I never saw them on the receiving side of the bar. For maximum convenience the bar was open twenty-four-seven.
Frenchy and I pulled up a couple of stools and waited.
“Hey Frenchy,” the bartender said cheerfully, wiping down our little area of the bar. “New pal?”
“Huh?” Frenchy stuttered. “Oh no! This is Frank. He’s a rookie and he’s on my crew.”
“Lucky him.” The bartender said acidly. “What’ll you have? Pink Lady?”
“Fuck you, Jack!” Frenchy said, with a little lisp. “That wasn’t funny the first time you said that a couple of months ago! You know what I drink, Godammit!”
“Hey, just fucking with ya, OK? A Shirley Temple coming right up. Naw, just kidding.”
I wasn’t so sure he was kidding, as he never smiled.
“How ‘bout you? What’ll ya have?”
I was frantically trying to think of the most masculine whiskey I could come up with.
“Uh, Jack Daniels!”
“How do you take it?” The barkeep asked, staring me straight in the eyeballs.
“Well…straight!” I blurted out. “Oh, and with a water chaser.” I thought about Michael back in Winnemucca.
“There ya go, Frenchy!” Jack said, slapping the damp dish towel he’d been wiping the bar with over his shoulder. “That’s what a man with a real dick drinks.”
“Fuck you again, Jack!” Frenchy said, with less of a lisp this time.
Jack turned away and studied the mountain of bottles.
“Asshole always fucks with me because I don’t drink whiskey.” Frenchy said, with a little whimper.
“No?” I said, questioningly.
“Naw, don’t like it. I drink brandy.”
“Brandy?”
“Yeah, that’s what my parents drink back home. I guess it sounds a little sissy, but I don’t care. I can’t stand whiskey.”
Since I’d never drank brandy before I found it difficult to have an opinion one way or the other, so I just nodded and waited for my whiskey.
***
It was almost impossible to maintain a conversation at the bar over the soulful and depressing music coming from the jukebox. As I came to discover, every .45 disk loaded into the brightly lit Rock-Ola was some type of country music hit. Since I’d pretty much been hit-parade music deprived for most of my teen-age years, thanks to the Pentecostal church, my recent experience with music tended to lean toward folk-rock, and some rock and roll.
Although vaguely familiar with the country music genre I had never heard of Skeeter Davis, Buck Owens, Dave Dudley, or Carl Butler and Pearl. But songs by these, and many other country music artists, poured out of the club’s juke box continuously. After a while I realized that the subject of every one of those songs had something to do with being far from home, being left alone at the altar, losing your true love, or having your best friend run off with your wife or girlfriend while you were somewhere far away.
Although I’d started out the evening with Frenchy in a not too depressed mood, by the time I was on my third drink I was thinking of breaking down and crying. Most of the crowd gathered at the bar knew every word of every verse of every song that the brightly-lit jukebox pumped out. A particularly gloomy verse would be sure to elicit coyote-like wails from the bar crowd, terminating in a mass throwing back of whatever one was drinking. As funny as this may sound it was deeply depressing.
I ended up downing a couple of more shots while Frenchy nursed his brandy in something he called a “sniffer” and finally decided to call it a night. Of course, in the dead of winter up there “night” was a relative term. The sun came up around ten in the morning and dipped back behind the distant mountain at two in the afternoon. So “night” was about twenty hours long.
Feeling a bit of a buzz I thought that maybe I should take a shower and try to get some sleep before my shift next morning. Even though our communal shower was enormous, with at least twenty shower heads poking out of the tile lined wall, this evening it was completely empty.
Still feeling a bit light-headed after my shower, I took a couple of aspirin and rolled into my bunk. Turning my body toward the wall and pulling my knees up to my chest I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head of the spinning echoes those country songs had left. Just before drifting off I wondered what Sharon and little Ricky were doing.
That night, the terrible dream that would haunt me every night for the next three months, and frighten me as nothing else ever had, visited me for the first time.
The Dream
The stone cell I was in was damp and cold; wet, salty air drifting in through the rusty vertical bars stung my eyes and left a sour crusty taste on my lips. Carved out of the side of a mountain the floor of the cell—really more like a cave—was made up of gritty dirt and pea-sized shells and stones. The balls of my feet and the ends of my toes were caked with dried blood and half-formed scabs.
The weight of the heavy iron chains linked to thick metal cuffs that were clamped to my wrists made it difficult for me to stand. And even when I tried to pull myself upright the low stone ceiling would hit the back of my head, keeping me from being able to stand up straight. My back ached and spasms of pain shot down my buttocks and the back of my legs.
I was thirsty and I was hungry; and I couldn’t remember when I last ate or drank. If I stood very still I could hear surf breaking on a nearby reef, but my view through the rusty bars was hindered by tall patches of dry scrub brush and burnt amber hills. The distant sound of water slapping on hard stone made me want to flood my mouth with saliva and lick my lips. But the best I could do was force my mouth open and let the heavy moist air flow over my dry, sticky tongue. I closed my phlegmy eyes, and breathing deeply, imagined those faraway waves of cold water breaking and washing over my head.
Crunching footfalls alerted my quickly dulling senses. Someone, anyone—please let me see you, my cloudy mind thought. But I dared not move.
A shadow, first small then growing long and lean pushed the gray light away and darkened the cell’s entrance.
I wanted to stand but instead found only enough strength to get to my hands and knees. The chains clinked faintly and dully and my hair fell over my eyes in long greasy strands. I shook my head like a dog shaking himself dry and the hard dry strands stung my forehead.
“Please…” I heard myself croak. “Water…please…please…”
The shadow stopped and the waves resumed their rhythmic cadence.
“Oh…” The sound slipped out of my mouth and hung in the air. I dared not move…afraid that the shadow would fade and disappear.
I focused hard on the edge of the stone entrance wishing that the force of my vision would somehow melt the hard stone and reward me with a glimpse of the body creating that shadow.
“Please don’t go. Please. Just look at me, and let me see you. Please.”
“You don’t deserve the privilege you fucking animal!” A deep heavy voice echoed around the cell. “You don’t deserve to live because you are not worthy of life. But soon enough you’ll feel the snap of the rope around your neck and your pitiful existence will end.”
“Ohhh…” I sat heavily back on my haunches and a tear found its way down the left side of my face. “Oh no. Oh please, no. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sure I didn’t mean it!” And a great feeling of black sorrow wrapped itself tightly around my throat—and I sobbed.
“You cry? You? How dare you.” The voice now monotone and emotionless.
“What did I do? Why am I being punished so? I don’t understand!” I shrieked, trying to raise my chain clad arms in an act of supplication.
“The only thing you need to know is that your pathetic life will soon be over. And the world will be a better place when you’re gone.”
“Why?” I pleaded.
“Why? You well know that your crime was so disgusting decent men cannot put it into words..” And the shadow turned, shrank and faded away.
I fell on my side and sobbed painfully, the chains digging into my ribs.
Was I really going to die? My inner voice asked. If I only knew why.
—
I am now walking up some steps and am no longer in the cave/cell. I have to step carefully because my hands are tied behind my back and I’m afraid to lose my balance. Every step my bare feet take is painfully punished by the splinters protruding from the edge of each wooden step. I want to climb each step slower and more carefully, but insistently hard hands push me forward, forcing me to take each step quickly to avoid falling face-first into the angry splinters.
I want to look back to look at my tormentor but I must keep my balance. I agonizingly take each step one by one.
There are people all around and below me, and they are booing and hissing, and yelling horrible insults. They hate me so. Finally reaching the top I am able to straighten up and look around.
Angry faces, frozen in grotesque masks of hate and rage; men, women, and even little children. It is clear that they all despise me, and were it not for the uniformed guards holding them back they would surge forward, toppling me from the wooden stairs and tear me limb from limb.
I am on a high platform now, well above the furious horde; and in the distance I see a beautifully calm emerald sea. Seagulls swoop and cry noisily in the sky, their beaks open and their steely eyes glaring at me hungrily.
An angry hand suddenly grabs me by the neck and pushes me to my left and I see a tall, hastily built wooden tripod—a thick burlap rope hanging down from its apex. The rope sways gently in the salty breeze, the noose at its end spinning slowing to and fro.
Suddenly, I hear a lone and plaintive voice rising sharply from the mad clamor of the crowd.
“Oh mijito! Why are they doing this to you?”
My mother?
I rip my eyes away from the ghastly noose and search the crowd.
She is standing on the ground directly in front of the gallows, her eyes swollen and her face streaked with tears. She’s raised her arms prayer-like, as she’d done so many times before when praying to her Christ and asking for forgiveness at her church. But today she was praying for me.
“MIJITO! ES MI MIJITO! POR FAVOR DIOS MIO, NO PERMITAS QUE LO MATEN!”
(MY SON! HE’S MY SON! PLEASE MY GOD, DON’T LET THEM KILL HIM!)
I started to yell down to her—to tell her that I loved her and that I didn’t want to die—and that I didn’t know what I’d done. And to please, please, make all of this madness stop. Save me, mother—please save me!
But before the first word even formed on my tongue, a severe blow to my mouth stifles my effort. A ball of dry rough-hewn cloth is shoved into my mouth and a canvas-like gag violently tied around my head sealing the vile clump of fabric inside. I gag and try to vomit but nothing comes up.
I continue to hear my mother’s pleadings, but they are slowly being drowned out by the raging crowd.
A large hand violently grabs me by my shoulders and all but lifts me off my feet. I am carried in the direction of the swaying noose and put roughly down. I look down at my feet and see that I am standing on what appears to be a trap door. The thick noose is pushed over my head, strands of burlap scratching my nose and making my eyes water even more. It is tightened around my neck almost crushing my larynx. I gag again.
Looking wildly around the platform, I search for someone to plead mercy from—but I see no one.
Slowly I look forward and find my mother’s face in the crowd.
She is standing still now, fastening a silk scarf over her head. There is a sad and resigned look on her face—and she mouths, ‘I love you’.
I hear a sharp pop and the wood under my feet shudders. Then, without a further sound, I am in free fall.
***
A violent snap, a short scream and a gagging sound shocked me into consciousness, and I smashed my hand violently against the wall.
Looking wildly around I was surprised to see that I was in a small dark room and was thrashing around under a blanket.
“What the fuck?” The raspy voice came out of the darkness. “Hey man, are you OK?”
My heart was beating wildly in my throat and the bitter taste of bile was creeping up my tongue. I sat up and tried to focus on the direction of the voice.
“Hey! Frank! Wake the fuck up, man!” It was Tommy.
I slammed my bare feet on the cold tile floor and grabbed the edge of my mattress. I sucked a lung full of air.
“Shit!” The word came out shakily. “Godammit!” After sucking down some more air.
Tommy was half sitting up on his bunk, and even in the darkness I could see his annoyance.
“Man, you woke me up, and half scared the shit out of me.” He said, less irritated now. “You having a nightmare, or what?”
I was shaking, and my jaw hurt. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I guess I was.”
“Well, shake it off, man. I need to get some sleep.”
“Yeah, sorry. What time is it?” I looked toward the table for the little round-faced clock with the luminescent numbers that we’d gone halfsy’s on a few weeks ago.
“I don’t know, man. Check the fucking clock out yourself.” And with that he rolled over, the bunk’s springs squeaking slightly.
I had just enough time to take a quick shower and dress for my shift.
As I walked softly out of the room and headed for the showers I was surprised to note that my legs felt rubbery and my heart was skipping a beat every so often. I also had the worst headache I’d ever had.
As the warm water washed over my head I tried to tell myself that what had frightened me out of my sleep had been nothing more than just a dream. But my mind would have none of it.
I turned my head and opened my mouth to let the jet of water scrub the sour taste of dry cloth from my tongue.
***
I was terribly uneasy for the rest of the day as the entire dream scenario played over and over again in my head. During my stints at the plotting board I was so distracted that my radar input operator had to repeat target coordinates several times over.
What was so bothersome about the dream was that it had seemed so real, and it was like no other dream that I’d ever had before. Hours after waking up I could still almost taste the grittiness of the rag that had been shoved into my mouth, and I swore that my neck felt chafed from the roughness of the hemp rope that had been pulled tight just before I dropped through the gallows’ trap door.
After my shift ended that day, instead of heading to the chow hall for dinner, I found myself pulling up a bar stool at the club.
The bartender greeted me amicably and asked if I’d gotten paid yet. I said I hadn’t.
“OK, then. I’ll start another tab. Having your regular?” He asked.
“Sure.”
A few minutes later I was sipping the smooth golden Tennessee whiskey and chasing it down with shots of cold water.
By the time I staggered back to my room and collapsed into my bunk, all memories of the awful dream had been washed away. Not even bothering to change out of my uniform, I flopped onto my bed and fell into a deep but fitful sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the restless night I found myself back in the cave—chained to the stone wall in that cold cell, a cold, gnawing fear tearing at my insides. Here I was, again wondering what I had done to cause me to be so hated, and so condemned.
And so every night for the next three months I made that horrific trip down to hell. And even though drinking did nothing but delay the inevitable for just a few hours, I thought that it helped me cope with my loneliness and the growing feeling of despair and helplessness.
I was slowly beginning to realize that the only way to end all of this was to simply end my life.
To be continued…