In 1968, eighteen-year-old Ian Christian is a typical kid of his generation. Stoned on a regular basis, he lives by the popular motto, "Make love, not war." But when he is drafted into the army at the height of the Vietnam War, his future suddenly changes. Ian Christian is about to be transformed into a killing machine. As he heads toward Southeast Asia, Ian's naïveté fades as the reality of his nightmare quickly unfolds. Thrust into the horrors of battle for over a year, Ian finally returns home-both emotionally and physically disabled-but still optimistic enough to search for happiness. Unfortunately, he soon encounters a life far from what he ever imagined. His trek to the truth takes him on a revealing, fact-finding mission that eventually unravels the lies of a government that has turned its back on him. Now in the midst of a cover-up that only he can expose, Ian must find the key to unlock the mystery, which means reliving a past he would rather forget. As Ian travels from Vietnam to Rio de Janeiro and finally to California wine country to search for answers, only time will tell if he will discover his true destiny before it is too late.
FILE 871
The Quest For TruthBy deMichael MyeriUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 deMichael Myer
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-0280-1Chapter One
Most of us look forward to final journeys. Just getting there, unpacking, and relaxing are the key elements to the sojourn ... unfortunately this one had a "Rest in Peace" overtone to it. Thirty-something seemed like an eternity back when I was a small child, but now it's just a speck of time in a lonely life. It's too late to change what I have or have not done, so all I can do is lie here motionless and stare into the eyes of my best friend. My soul mate as she puts it. Soul mate, that's an interesting concept. While I do believe there are several people right for each one of us, there is but one true mate that gets to the very heart of one's soul. That someone only comes along once in a lifetime, and Lucy Demonds was it for me. Lucy was a beautiful, vibrant woman with a quirky, but wonderful personality. Sometimes she would be playful and the next minute she could be cold and distant. Her smile was her most redeeming feature; it always lit me up whenever she was near. Stalwartness was her main attribute, which explains why she had been there for me right up to the very end.
Lucy, the mother of three beautiful girls, Missy, Kelly and Alex, was someone who began as an affair and ended up as an eternal love. Who would've guessed that I would fall in love with my best friend that just happened to be married? Bob, a close friend of mine, told me not to do it. He said, "Don't even think of it Ian, just fuck her and enjoy it." Bob asked me if I really wanted Lucy to leave her husband, and if so, was I ready for the ramifications. The answer was a simple yes; I did want her to leave her husband. Basically I loved her because she was the woman of my dreams. As fate would have it her husband actually left and divorced her. He hired a private detective to follow us, which wasn't too difficult seeing that we weren't very discreet. Our sexual activity was often found in a variety of local motels, parked cars and the occasional blanket in the woods. I assumed Lucy's husband couldn't live with the idea that I was having more sex with her than he was, so he up and left. I actually felt bad for him, but great for Lucy.
So here I am, frantically trying to exorcise the demons that have haunted me for the past fifteen years. This special care unit, or hospice as it's called, was designed to let the terminally ill pass away with dignity. Dignity ... I had no more dignity. It was long gone by the time I was twenty-one years old. And now Lucy, my oncologist, and my mother have gathered together one last time to bid me farewell. Tom Brokaw is on the television, so I'm thinking its evening. Mom's talking to Dr. Lipson, and Lucy is looking down at me, sadness written on her face. Her eyes are fixed on mine. I can read her thoughts as well as feel her pain. The love that she has shown in our short life is still there; it's euphoria for me even now. She keeps asking me, "Ian can you understand what I'm saying?" I would love to be able to answer her, but a stroke has left me incapable of speaking. A small blood clot broke off in my carotid artery and went to my brain, so conversation is no longer an option. If I could, I would tell Lucy how much I still love her and thank her for taking care of me, especially in these last few months. She knows that she is the one true love of my life, but it would be rewarding to tell her one last time. I would wish her well and tell her to hug the kids for me. Ask them to remember the great times we had together, as short as they were. Life would never be the same for any of them again, and the same could be said of me. I would simply slip away in the next few hours ... becoming a distant memory in a couple of years.
The one thing I wished I had done was to marry Lucy before I got to this stage of my life. She and the kids would have been able to capitalize on many of my government benefits. Lucy especially could have obtained some Social Security income to live on. Of course, that meant I would've had to take some sort of action, but as things go, long-range planning was not one of my better attributes. I procrastinated a lot and my live-in family would be the victims of my mismanagement. It seemed love and sex suited me better than solid decision-making, and that is why Lucy and I were soul mates.
I find myself drifting in and out of consciousness. It comes and goes a lot these days. I'm here and gone and back so much that I sometimes think I'm in a time machine. Thoughts range from my childhood, to the war and to the many loves of my life, but most often I think of Lucy. The pain is so unbearable; I'm not sure how much more of this I can endure. You'd think that the morphine drip that was going through my veins would slow the pain, but after awhile no amount of drugs can help. When I was still able to use a self-injector, I would hit myself with a dose of morphine all the time. The nurses informed me that I could only get so much in a single dose over a given period of time, so constant injection was a waste of time. Not for me, I didn't give a shit. I just believed that it was going to take the pain away. When you're this close to death you'll believe anything. The pain still engulfed me, except I could no longer tell anyone how bad it really was. No voice meant no more whining. The nursing staff liked it that way because they were completely tired of my complaining. I guess I was even tired of it myself. My body was rapidly closing down with no way to stop it. My life was getting shorter and shorter by the hour, to where I would soon welcome death. I wanted to go now, but one last glimpse of Lucy was enough to keep me going for whatever amount of time I had left. And that smile, it was still there showing right though what must have been total despair.
This microcosm of life that I had led was tragically concluding, but what got me here is infinitely more important than anything you could ever imagine. The lies, deceit and betrayal of our government led me down this path, but what matters most is that I am still here to tell my story.
It all started when I graduated from Robbinsdale High School. The year was 1966, Johnson was president, and I was in the fast lane, planning my life right on down to the model of Porsche I was going to buy. I figured I'd start out with a mildly short college career, followed by a lucrative contract in professional hockey. I'd attend school for a couple years and get drafted by the Canadiens or the Islanders. Play, say seven or eight seasons, and retire while I was young and physically able to maintain my mobility. Beautiful women would fulfill my childhood fantasies and off-ice endorsements from skate, stick or helmet manufacturers would keep me in cash well into the twenty-first century. Retirement would be pleasant if I invested shrewdly. I was young, smart and strong; I knew hockey like Keats knew verse. Life looked like it was going to rain gold on me; what followed was a shit-storm of epic proportion.
My freshman year at St. Cloud State College was fast paced ... majoring in parties and minoring in young female coeds. It was a mid-sized college just seventy quick miles up Interstate 94 from Minneapolis, with an enrollment of approximately 12,000 students. A short stones throw from home, but far enough away that I wouldn't be getting any unexpected visits from my parents. I attended classes infrequently, physically showing up only if I couldn't con some adorable young girl into taking notes for me. I was six foot two and weighed one hundred and ninety-five pounds... Scandinavian by descent with a real-life Beatle hairdo. I spent fall days luring female coeds into my dormitory room, where I enjoyed some of the greatest sex of my younger life.
As fall quarter progressed, the foliage turned brilliant colors of red, gold and deep purple. The wind intensified as the temperature began to drop. My grades followed and by the end of the quarter I had a dangerously low one point five GPA. For some strange reason I just plain threw caution to the wind, forgetting to focus on the purpose at hand. It wasn't that classes were too difficult or that I was stupid, actually I was nearly a straight-A student in high school. It was just that women, parties and jock stuff kept getting in the way of my two-year plan.
Winter quarter began with biology, a viral infection and this incredible brunette named Val. She was every guy's dream. Val wore micro-miniskirts and painted-on sweaters. In frigid, cold Minnesota winters her nipples stood out like headlights on a VW Bug. She helped me pull my grades together, but it was that damn virus that took its toll on my pursuit of stardom.
By February, my illness had transformed into full-blown walking pneumonia, which all but eliminated me from the hockey team. I couldn't breathe without wheezing, nor did I have the energy to keep up with my line mates. I was run-down, pissed-off, and just a pain in the ass to everyone around me. As I recollect, it was on a Tuesday after practice, on the first week of the month, when Coach Johnson called me into his office. Coach was a beady-eyed Canook from Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. His game was the typical Canadian dump and chase style of hockey, but lately he was trying mercilessly to copy the Russian's style of play. He explained the situation as I sat there pondering the long-term effects of my inactivity. I knew from Coach Johnson's posture that I was on my way out. He was actually demoting me from second line center to riding the pines. I accepted the news with mixed emotions, but when coach left me behind for a big tournament in Detroit, I realized that I might as well hang up my blades for the rest of the season and try again next year.
Next year never came. I got drafted in April of `68, only this draft wasn't held at the headquarters of the National Hockey League. Instead I received a fairly impersonal invitation from Uncle Sam, requesting, no demanding my presence in some sort of police action that was, in some abstract way, designed to end Communism forever. That Sam guy was a real joker. He was trying his best to camouflage the sacrificial lamb in letterform. Sam just wanted poor, unsuspecting kids to add fuel to a fire that was already burning out of control.
As a youngster, I remembered going to the post office with mom where I saw a frightening poster of Uncle Sam hanging on the wall. Sam was an imposing figure with long, white hair that spilled forth out of his star-studded top hat. There was a stern look to his face, which gave way to the illusion that he was looking right through me to my inner soul. His rigid finger always pointed in my direction no matter where I was in the room. At the top of the poster was a caption that read, "I WANT YOU." He always looked too surrealistic from my point of view. Anyway, all this nonsense made me very uneasy. It was as if Sam knew every thought I was having for the five or ten minutes that I was there. I would stand directly behind mom, peaking around her, half expecting Sam to descend the wall at any moment and pluck me up to a life that I was completely ill suited for. So I would just stand there captivated by this man of paper until mom came to my rescue. She would end my stupor, but never, ever did I forget the hollow feeling I had when I left that place. Hours later I would snicker to myself as I thought how this so-called uncle looked more like the ringmaster in a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus than any uncle of mine.
Chapter Two
I was still dating Val at the time of my Army induction. We were typical kids of our generation. We'd get stoned and say let's "Make love not war," and practiced what we preached for hours on end. Those were the days when you could have sex for hours every day of the week. Our in-bed relationship was outstanding, but there seemed to be something lacking when it came to matters of a more serious nature. Val was totally insecure. She needed constant attention; something she thought only came from sex or being connected at the hip. Don't get me wrong, I loved sex, but I wanted more than just sexual gratification. I needed to know who I was and what life was all about. After all, I was about to enter into another dimension, a place where people owned you ... people who would tell you what to do, when to do it and for how long. I was use to being my own person and I was about to be transformed into a machine. I wanted to let go, to step back and reevaluate the situation. That's when I realized that she wanted more than an eighteen-year old kid could give.
My military induction was uneventful and humiliating all at the same time. It took place at the Minneapolis Government Center. They lined all of us up single file, had us drop our pants and grab our ankles. The doctors would first check out our ass and then our teeth. They reported that everyone was fit to serve our country, and informed us that we were now property of Uncle Sam, and they could do what they wanted with us. If we got sick, the government would take care of us. Years later I realized that statement was as false as the tits on some of the girls in my ninth-grade class. When the examination was over, we pulled our pants back up as we counted off by fours. The ones went to the Navy, the threes to the Marines and the fours to the Air Force. I was a number two and felt like it, as I was about to embark on my new career in the U.S. Army.
About 120 of us boarded a plane that flew to Philadelphia. From there, we took a bus onto Fort Dix, which is located somewhere in New Jersey. It's at this point that my story and demise really begins. The Army shaved my head and immediately began to fuck with it. This was the beginning of basic training.
Sgt. Catberg screamed, "Okay, I want all you fuckin' momma's pussies to fall in, and stand at attention while I call out your name." He had a distinctive slow, southern drawl to his voice ... maybe Mississippi or Alabama, with a hunched-over posture. "Listen up `cause I'm only going to call it out once. If you don't answer immediately, you'll get sent to a shit detail until you can either hear or respond in a proper manor. Do I make myself clear maggots?" "Yes sergeant," was the correct response repeated about four or five times at the top of your lungs. "Now I want the following piss-ants to follow Sgt. Mendez to barracks six." I, Ian Christian, was one of those lucky ones to be under the command of this former Vietnam infantryman. I followed the Mexican sergeant into the barracks where I learned all I ever needed or wanted to know about the Army in one, quick thirty-minute segment.
The next eight weeks were pure hell, but a cakewalk compared to a guy who Sgt. Catberg caught masturbating in the bathroom. This totally normal sexual release was frowned upon by the military. Those that were caught were made to stand in front of formation every day for two weeks while holding onto their penis until everyone was done with morning police call. They did this as the women recruits marched by on their way to breakfast. A few, "Boy is that small" or "Hey girls, look at that, someone let their pet mouse out again" comments could be heard as they passed by. Heaven help those who were unlucky enough to get caught a second time.
Sgt. Catberg was a hard line E-7 noncommissioned officer. He took it upon himself to make every inductee into a killing machine. His drawl matched quite well with his mentality. There was no room for error with this guy, as I learned firsthand during my last week of training. We had just finished our final physical training test, so a few of us got together to drink some beers in the barracks. Catberg stalked into my room and demanded to know who was responsible for the alcohol. I replied, "I was." After ten minutes of verbal exchange, I was informed that I was to be court-martialed. I couldn't believe my ears? Court-martialed and discharged from the Army for drinking beer. Wouldn't that have looked good on my resume? Shit, the very thought of it shook me to my bones. A couple of days passed before a senior staff officer stepped in and the whole incident was dropped. The retaliation was gone, but the intimidation was just beginning.
Fort Polk was the next stop on my training schedule. Polk was in Louisiana, a place that sizzled by day or night. One look around this hellhole left a person with an understanding of why they called it Little Vietnam. The place stunk ... it was hot, and it had swamps and snakes just like Vietnam. Former Vietnam vets who were now stationed here said that they liked Vietnam better than Polk. Vietnam, or Nam as it was referred to, had more drugs than the local pharmacy, which made the war just that much more tolerable. It was at Polk that I learned about this untold side of the war that old Uncle Sam never wanted anyone to learn about. I learned that drugs in Vietnam were as easy to obtain as candy. They were cheap and everyone, including officers, was doing them. You could actually get some of what you wanted in local French drug stores, some on the streets and the rest from a buddy or ten. I wondered how people could be so high all the time without getting killed or getting someone else killed. Between the stories and the surroundings, I began to feel like I was part of the war.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from FILE 871by deMichael Myer Copyright © 2011 by deMichael Myer. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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